


A Thing of Beauty

by AntiMaterielGirl



Series: Bowed But Unbroken [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 28,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long-awaited sequel to Wipe the Slate Clean.<br/>After the main storyline, a good karma female Lone Wanderer buys Charon's contract in an effort to forget, and starts to rebuild her life with him at her side. But true happiness proves elusive in the Wasteland - everyone has a past, and both of them carry plenty of baggage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Morning

As with just about every morning, Olivia woke up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. She valiantly attempted to orient herself. _Where…oh yeah, RobCo_. They were going to confront Roy.

“Mmmm…” She yawned.  Wow, what a dream. She hadn’t had _those_ kind of dreams in a while. Not since Butch had… _OH MY GOD._ In an instant she became aware of her nakedness and of the warm, heavy arm across her abdomen.

He had covered her with his t-shirt, apparently the only article of clothing within reach of where they lay.  

Her mind became clear, frightfully clear. The whiskey, the song and dance, the…everything. She took a deep breath _._ It had been tense, awkward, ever since they left the house in Megaton. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable. There was a quality of intimacy there that even close friends did not share.

_It was only a matter of time._

But that didn’t mean she felt any less bad about it. _This is wrong._ He depended on her. _He’s practically my slave_ , she thinks. Carefully, gently, she slips out from under his arm, slips the shirt on, and after giving him a quick once-over, covers him with a blanket from her bedroll and pads to the restroom with a washrag.

She closes the bathroom door, and leaves it open a tiny crack – just in case he wakes up, she wants to hear him coming.

 _I own a slave._ She thinks. _What would dad think?_

Even after he’s gone, he serves as her moral compass.

She grips the edge of the sink, looks at her face in the mirror, thinks of Ahzrukhal. _I suppose a good slave master is better than a bad one._

A weak justification. _Nothing is black and white here, Dad. It’s all shades of gray._

She dreads when he wakes up. How can she face him? The knot in her gut twists, just a little tighter. She washes her hands and face, and takes a field shower – not much time or facilities for anything else, although they might be able to commandeer a room at Tenpenny Tower later. The thought of a hot shower is enticing.

She sighs, picks at her greasy hair. _It’ll have to wait._

When she approaches the desk, he has his back to her, pulling on his pants. She blushes. He glances side to side for something, then turns to her, smiles, cigarette in the corner of his mouth.  “There it is.” He points at her. _His shirt._

She’s by no means small – but she still looks like a little girl that got into her daddy’s closet and started trying on his clothes. The shirt hangs down almost to her knees. “Oh! Here – “ she quickly removes the shirt, then turns even more red, clutches it to her chest.

He chuckles. “Here’s yours.” He’d made a nice, neat pile of her clothes and set them on the desk. Nervously, she snatches them, and runs for the bathroom. “Gimme a second!” He shakes his head. This one is all contradictions. An expert killer, but can’t sing in front of an audience.  Sleeps with someone, and still nervous to be naked in front of them. He looks down at his chest. _Well, I suppose I don’t blame her. It’s not like I belong on the cover of GQ._


	2. Love Suite Love

She dresses quickly, and hurries back to give him his shirt.

While she was dressing, he’d started repacking the bedrolls, affixing them to their packs. It makes her feel even worse – for almost two weeks, he’d taken care of her, anticipating her needs, and what had she done in return? Take advantage of him. There’s no doubt that she’s in the superior position – she can order him to do whatever she wants, whether he wants to do it or not.

She averts her eyes as she hands him his shirt. “I’m sorry.” She mumbles.

He frowns. “Sorry for what?”

“For – “ she swings her arm, indicating the floor where they spent the night. “ – taking advantage of you.”

He raises his eyebrows. _You’ve got to be kidding._ “Wait – you’re serious.” He pulls the shirt over his head.

“Yes, I am.” She replies, tone serious.

He sighs. “Look, I initiated. If anyone was taken advantage of, it was you.”

“But – “

“But nothin’. You could have stopped me, at any time.” _True._ “If anyone should apologize, I should apologize to you.” He pauses. “Do you want me to?”

She blushes, a shy smile. “No.”

He leans against the wall. “Look – if you want to transfer my contract, I understand. No one saw. We can go back, and – “

“Transfer? What do you mean?” It hasn’t even occurred to her.

He tries to phrase it in a practical way. “People are not understanding of physical – _relations_ – between ghouls and humans. If anyone knew, you’d have a …reputation. Not a good one.”

She frowns. She hadn’t thought of that before. She’d only thought briefly of what people might think of them living in the house in Megaton for a week, just them and a robot. “I never thought about that before.”

Incredulous, he says, “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Look,” he blurts, “I don’t know if you felt it, but I did. It was only a matter of time.”

She nods. She had felt it. The awkwardness. The long silences. Catching the other looking at them when they thought they weren’t paying any attention. Touching when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. He’s right. They’re both right. It was only a matter of time.

“So,” she says, “what should we do about it?”

“Did you have a problem with…it?” he asks.

She scratches her nose, nervously, averts her eyes. “No…I suppose not.”

He stubs out his cigarette, lights one, and hands it to her. “The way I see it, we have three choices. One,” he holds up an index finger, “we could continue, and be careful. Two,” middle finger, “we can forget the whole thing, be just business. Or three,” ring finger, “you can transfer my contract to someone you trust. I would never tell a soul.”

“Which option do you prefer?” she asks.

“It does not matter. I will go with whatever you choose, regardless of my own wishes.” _She should have known better than to ask him his opinion._

“I wouldn’t be able to forget…that.” She says.  “Goddamn it – that was the first time that anyone out here has shown me any fuckin’ passion.” He nods. With the realities of daily life out in the wastes, it’s easy to get cynical. She lifts her chin, defiantly. “Fine. Since you force me to choose…we’ll see where this leads.” _I want so badly to connect with someone._ “Since we’re serious about this…I suppose you can call me Liv now. Everyone close to me does.”

He smiles. “This is too good to be true. Pinch me.”

“Is that an order?”

They laugh.

* * *

 

“What a fuckin’ mess.” He shakes his head – they had to kill all of ‘em – not one of them would listen to reason. All the smoothskins – all of them – had been murdered, left down in the basement like trash. What a waste.

“Let’s make the best of a bad situation, then – how about a meal and a shower?” she asks. It’d been some time since she’d had a hot shower – the water in Megaton was lukewarm at best.

“Sounds good to me. Lead the way.”

They toss the bodies out of Tenpenny’s suite. No reason why they shouldn’t enjoy living in the lap of luxury, at least for a brief while. They drop their packs and strip their armor near the door and she digs into her pack, pulling out a variety of food items, which she takes to the bed and lays out. “There ya go. Take what you want.” She’s startled when she’s spun around, and finds his lips on hers. He tosses her on the bed like a rag doll, boxes flying every which way, bouncing on the floor. He leans over her, and starts fighting with her belt buckle.

“Charon, what – “ she starts to ask, before the ambiguous nature of her last order occurs to her.

He meets her eyes. “You told me to take what I want. I want you.”

She laughs, smiles. “Is that so? ” _So soon after…? Oh Lord, I’ve created a monster._

She closes her eyes, and allows him to undress her. Rough hands caress her gentle curves, exploring her, savoring her softness. “Mmm…” she croons, the warmth of his hands eliciting delightful shivers wherever he touches. He peels off his shirt and slides up her body on all fours, trailing kisses from her ear to her ample chest. She wraps her legs around his waist, and he grinds against her, warmth gathering beneath her navel, a moan escaping her slender throat. He takes a nipple in his mouth, tongue flicking, as he kneads her other breast, enthusiastically. Her pulse races, her breath quickens.

She can’t take this much longer. She feels the heat of him, the hardness of him, straining through the material of his trousers, and she mewls like a desperate animal. “Take me. Take me now. Please…” she begs. She hears the clink of a belt buckle, the rustle of clothing dropping to the floor. Then he’s _there,_ between her trembling legs, just inches from her. He savors the sight. It wasn’t so long ago that he never expected that he’d have a woman underneath him, wanting him, begging for him – especially not one this beautiful.

Slowly, he enters her, her warm wetness enveloping him tightly. His eyes close and his head tilts back, and he groans as she wraps her legs around him, pulling him deeper into her. He thrusts slowly, languorously, listening to her low moans, watching her soft breasts bounce in time with his gentle rhythm . Acting on impulse, he leans back, guides her heels to his shoulders, and thrusts deeper, harder, faster, her moans becoming louder, longer, and more fervent. She grips the bedsheets, tossing her head from side to side, when suddenly, she screams in ecstasy, her whole body tightening. She clenches around him, and unable to hold himself back, he releases himself into her with a mighty thrust, and a guttural shout of his own.

He slides out of her and flops next to her on the bed, careful not to crush her leg. “Oh, my goodness,” she says. They’re lying in a heap on the bed, surrounded by crumpled clothing and boxes of forgotten food. “I’m gonna be so sore.”

He stirs, seems uncomfortable. “I am sorry. For being rough.”

“Apology accepted.” She laughs. “It wasn’t your fault, though. It happened fast. Instinct took over.” She pats his arm, and he flinches.

“How are you comfortable with…the way I am?” he inquires.

“Oh…you mean, being physical with you?”

“Yes.”

“I find you…beautiful.” She muses. As much as he'd like to believe it, he's unconvinced. “Sometimes, it’s hard to see yourself as beautiful. I understand.” It never even crossed his mind that she’d find herself less than beautiful. He shakes his head in disbelief.  She continues. “Also, women are funny that way. We’ll overlook almost anything for –“ _Love._

“For what?”

 She shakes her head. “Nevermind. I-I need a shower.”

He watches her quickly pull a shirt over her head and jog to the bathroom, wondering how he ever got so lucky.


	3. A Little Leisure

She stands in the steaming spray for a long time. Hot showers are few and far in between in the wasteland, and she’s determined to make this one last as long as she can.

She soaps herself down, wincing at the soreness between her legs _._ She briefly wonders if a stimpak would work for that, then dismisses the idea – she doesn’t have enough of those saved up to be spending them on sore…insides. She’d just have to fight him off for the next couple days. Which, judging from his enthusiasm – and hers – it would be very hard.

She still has no idea where they're going next. She’d been so angry at first, hearing that radio broadcast, and then she was distracted by well… _other things_ , that she didn’t bother to think ahead. He looks to her for guidance, and he’d probably get frustrated if he knew she was just making decisions on the fly.

A licentious thought occurs to her…perhaps they can stay for a few days. She closes her eyes, imagines his hands running down her sides, cupping her ass...

No, they have to go. Otherwise, neither of them will want to leave. They’ll spend the night, then move on, she decides. Perhaps they can go to the Nuka Cola plant, and bring Quantums to that odd woman in Girdershade with the “museum.”

After the water purifier was started – and running perfectly, under the watchful eye of the Brotherhood – her role had diminished significantly. She’d expected to settle down in Megaton, live her whole life there, maybe – hoping that Butch would come for her; tell her he loved her. He hadn’t. Neither had Charon, but as she observes cynically – if you can’t have Mr. Right, there’s no harm in having a Mr. Right Now. _Great. Now I not only have a slave, but he’s a sex slave._ And a ghoul. I’m sure dad would be proud.

She stands, water running through her hair, down her back, her legs…thinking about the word she’d almost let slip. _Love._ She sighs; shakes her head. She’s known him for what? Two weeks, maybe? Love at first sight does not exist – although, she finds herself wishing that it does. She turns off the water, watches as the last of it circles the drain. She carefully steps out after wringing out her hair, wraps a towel around herself. Softly, she pads back into the room, intent on getting some clean clothing from her pack.

He’s fallen asleep, back to her, bare.

He’s never given her a lot of time to study him without clothing – he is practical about the realities of ghoulification, but it hasn’t escaped her notice that he usually covers up as quickly as he can…out of shame or embarrassment, perhaps. _Maybe that might change because of our...situation._ She does know that if she asked him to strip so that she can examine him in more detail, he would – if it were phrased as an order – but it would no doubt make him uncomfortable. It’s bad enough that people stare at him, both because of his size and his – how does he phrase it? “Condition.” He doesn’t need her doing the same.

He must feel comfortable; safe. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so careless.

She creeps silently to the side of the bed and crouches. Her eyes peruse the edges of his skin – where it had sloughed off, broken off, or become too damaged and had to be removed years ago. Some of the edges are ragged, others, probably older, are smoother. The muscles are a rich, deep red – and radiate body heat. Her eyes trail the parts of his lats, his trapezius that peek out from under his leathery hide. The muscle definition is incredible, she thinks. _He must have been quite a specimen before he turned_. Unable to resist, she hesitantly reaches out to touch him, wanting to feel the difference between exposed muscle and his remaining skin.

He stiffens, turns, and seizes her hand. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” He rises from the bed, quickly gathers his clothing, and heads to the bathroom, as fast as he can manage without running.

He still isn’t used to being touched. He’d thought that he’d long ago accepted what he was, but the game has changed. He’s worried about her – worried about what might happen if someone found out about them. He knows what happens to smoothskin women caught in her…situation. They’re made pariahs; outcasts. They’re called tainted, stained, damaged goods. Out of a lack of self-control, he had ruined her. Made her an untouchable.

The guilt was almost too much to bear.

He looks down at himself – tattered, leathery skin stretched over smooth, hard muscle. _Beautiful? Ridiculous_ , he thinks, shaking his head. Then again, she sees beauty in the strangest things. The stark branches of a dead tree reaching toward the sky, the glossy carapace of a radscorpion, a scrap of colored paper floating in an irradiated puddle. She points these things out to him as they travel. Sometimes, when they have down time, she pulls out a sketchbook and starts drawing.

He doesn’t blame her. Forcing herself to see the beauty in everything…it can be wonderful armor against the cynicism, the apathy that permeates their world. Or perhaps she just sees it naturally – and that, he thinks, is truly sad. That someone who so easily finds beauty and grace can be trapped in this world, this dismal reality…when she deserves so much better.

He turns on the cold water – showers for him are always cold, always brief. Warm water softens his skin, makes it more prone to damage. He wants what he has left to last as long as possible. The dirt and blood, washed away by the water, circles the drain lazily. When the water runs clear, he steps out, pats himself down, and dresses.

When he returns, she’s sitting on the bed, half-dressed, hair wet, munching on an apple and reading a book she’d found. He sits on the end of the bed. “What are you reading?”

She looks up. “Oh, poetry. You wouldn’t like it.”

“Try me.”

“Fine:

 

> Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
> 
> And sorry I could not travel both
> 
> And be one traveler, long I stood
> 
> And looked down one as far as I could
> 
> To where it bent in the undergrowth; ”

 

“The Road Not Taken,” he says, surprising her.

“How did you know?” she asks, smiling.

“What – did you think that I never read a book before?” he jokes.

“Well…” she starts, trailing off.

He says, “I know the stereotype. Us bodyguards are just dumb slabs of muscle, only good for killing people.” _And taking orders._

“Oh, that’s not what I intended – well, maybe a little. You just don’t seem like the kind of guy that likes to read poetry. Or anything about _feelings_.”

He lays back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. “I haven’t had time to read in a long time,” he says.

“I’m sorry.” She says, sheepishly.

“For what?” he asks. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”

“I know. It’s just that…I want you to have so much better. You deserve it.” He glances at her – she’s looking at her hands, face flushed with embarrassment. So beautiful. _Be still, my beating heart._ When she can’t take the tension anymore, she hops off the bed and retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of her discarded pants. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

She sighs, disappointed. “You know, I tried to do my best here.”

He grunts.

She taps the pack of cigarettes on her thigh. “I tried to make everyone happy.”

“That never works, Liv.”

“I know. But I had to at least try.”


	4. Factory Faux Pas

When they decide to bed down for the night, they blockade the door with a heavy dresser.

The book tips slowly, landing face-down on her chest. Quietly, he lifts it, dog-ears a page to keep her place, and sits it on the nightstand. After turning off the lamp, he lays next to her, stroking her golden hair, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath in the dim light filtering in from the bathroom.

He lights another cigarette, sits in the dark, thinking. _I would rather be nowhere else at this moment._ Of all the places he’s been, the things he’s seen – this. This moment.

He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray, slips under the covers, and gently draws her to him. He nuzzles into her hair, the clean scent of the lightly fragranced soap filling his nasal passages. He closes his eyes, basks in her warmth, her scent, her presence.

He drifts off, warm and content, a protective arm pressing her to his chest.

* * *

 

When he wakes, he’s staring into her clear, blue eyes.

He jerks back. “Ugh…I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?” she asks.

“Watch me sleep. It’s…creepy.”

“Sorry. You just look so peaceful.” She smiles.

He grunts in reply.

“So…how do you feel about going to the Nuka Cola factory?”

“Where you go, I will follow.” He says.

She frowns. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Well, then…I would like that.”

She smiles. “That’s better.”

* * *

 

“Liv, why are we doing this?” Charon asks, after blowing a bloody hole in a raider’s chest.

“To satisfy my curiosity. Among other things.” She answers, cryptically.

_I know that tone. None of my business,_ he thinks. _She’ll tell me when she’s ready._ Sometimes, he thanks his lucky stars that he doesn’t have to make the decisions. Following orders was so much simpler – he doesn’t have to think, just do.

He opens the door to the Nuka Cola plant cautiously, shielding her from any threats that might be inside. He can hear the telltale clank of metal. _Great, robots. I fuckin’ hate robots._ They’d always creeped him out, even before the war. It blew his mind then why anyone would consider using them for security. It takes a reasoning mind, an emotional mind – robots don’t have gut feelings, they don’t feel the hair on the back of their neck stand up.

Of course, he is professional security – so he might be a bit biased.

“Get out your pulse weapons.” The last thing he needs is her eating up ammo, spraying bullets everywhere. He wishes he could fix that selector switch on her Chinese Assault Rifle to semi-auto, permanently. She can’t resist the “spray and pray” approach. She’d nearly shot him half a dozen times already.

She sighs. “Robots?”

“Yeah.”

They work their way through to the factory floor, her lobbing pulse grenades, him finishing whatever managed to survive with a shotgun blast. “There’s gotta be a computer in here, somewhere. To tell me where the Quantums are.”

He makes a disgusted face. “Why’d you want any Quantum? That shit’s gross.”

“Says you. There’s a lady in Girdershade willing to pay for ‘em. Forty caps a piece.”

“No shittin’?”

“Nope. And I need the caps. We can’t find ammo just anywhere.” _Good point._

After searching around for a bit, they’re challenged by a Mr.Handy-type robot.  She pushes his shotgun to the side, quickly. “No, no! Don’t shoot him! He’s a friendly!” Charon eyes the robot, warily. To him, no robot is friendly – those things can turn on you at any second. He shakes his head. No loyalty at all.

The goofy thing just gives her the password to the computer – really.  His mind wanders to all the reasons a living, breathing security guard would have been better while her fingers fly over the terminal keys. “Says here…ah, crap.”

“What?”

She reads off the screen. “There were shipments of Quantum going to the Super Duper Mart, Old Olney, and…Paradise Falls.”

“The slaver place?” he frowns.

“Yeah. Maybe I can sneak in with a Stealth Boy and find it.” She suggests.

“Are you out of your FUCKING MIND?” he yells.

“Umm…maybe.”

He waves his arms in frustration. “They’d kill you in half a heartbeat! With ideas like that, it’s a wonder you’re not dead already!”

“Well, then, maybe you could distract them.”

“You told me to say something if it’d help, right?” he asks.

“Right,” she nods.

“This is NOT a good fuckin’ idea.”

She taps her chin with an index finger. “Fine then…maybe I can get in another way. The guy at the front gate told me I could prove myself to get in.”

“And what do you have to do?” he asks.

“Umm…” her face looks pained. “Enslave people.” She mumbles.

“WHAT?” he shouts.

“Yeah, I don’t like it, either.” She says, sheepishly.

“So, you’re telling me that you actually thought about it?”

“Well, no, not _seriously_.” She shakes her head.

“So, how many Quantums is worth someone’s freedom, Liv?” he snaps.

“I didn’t – “ she starts.

It’s too late; he can’t stop now. He stabs a finger at her chest. “That you’d even suggest something like that. To ME, of all people. What are you THINKING?”

“I wasn’t – “

“That’s right. You weren’t.”

He remains silent, all the way back to Megaton, offering only grunts in reply to anything she says. _I screwed it up again,_ she thinks. _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_


	5. Three Sheets

The awkwardness doesn’t dissipate when the door closes in Megaton. It only gets worse – more stifling, so thick it almost chokes her.

“Stay here if you want to. I’m going out.” She says, unable to take it anymore.

Gob’s isn’t too far away, and some liquor sounds like a great idea. If she didn’t have a reason to drink before, a moody bodyguard…no, more than that…is a perfect excuse. The last place she wants to be right now is home.

“Howya doin’ Gob?” she asks, as she hops up on a barstool and rests her elbows on the bar.

He looks around behind her. “So…where’s Charon?” He’s usually right behind her, even in town.

“I told him to stay home if he wanted to.”

Gob’s eyebrows raised, curious. “Really? So, what happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened? Gimme a whiskey.”

He pours her a double – her regular – and pushes it across the bar. “I mean…what happened? He’s usually following right behind you, like a lost puppy.”

“Jesus, don’t say that in front of him.”

Gob laughs. “Don’t worry about that. I don’t have a death wish.” He holds on to the glass when she tries to grab it. “C’mon. Out with it.”

She sighs. “Well, I need to get into Paradise Falls.”

“Okay…”

“And the guy at the gate told me that I could get in, if I did something for them. Well, a few things.”

“Ah, shit. They wanted you to drag people in, huh?” Gob says, shaking his head.

“Yeah. I wasn’t even considering it, but I mentioned it, and…Charon lost it.”

He shakes his head. “Ya think?”

“That was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry I ever mentioned Paradise Falls. Any of it.” Tears obscure her vision as she sips her drink.

His eyes narrow. His gut is telling him that she’s showing way too much emotion for just a bodyguard. He leans in, conspiratorially. “What else happened?”

“Umm…nothing.”

“I’m a bartender, Olivia – I can spot that shit a mile away.  And, you’re a really shitty liar. Also, I’ve known you for a while. Somethin’s not right.” He sighs, frustrated. “Out with it.”

She sits, hands around her glass, staring at the coppery liquid, as if it holds all the answers to her problems. Slowly, she looks up, into his eyes. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. “Holy shit. You didn’t. HE didn’t!”

“Gob, keep it down.” She whispers. She grabs him by the wrist. “Don’t tell anyone. Promise.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

She drains her glass, asks for another. He admits, “Well, if there’s a better reason to drink, I don’t know it.” He pours her another.

* * *

 

Three hours later, she’s slumped over the bar nursing a beer. Gob turns to Nova, grabs her arm and drags her to the door. “Go get Charon. She can’t make it home on her own.”

She shifts from foot to foot, nervously. “Why can’t you go get ‘im? He scares me.”

“I’m busy.” He sighs. “Please.”

“Fine. You owe me.” She stalks out, pausing to light a cigarette on the way. _I hope he’s not too pissed off._ She takes her time, thinking about what she’s going to say. Directness is probably best, she decides – he doesn’t look like a person who has the patience for social niceties. She pauses at the door, fist raised. _Here goes._

KNOCK, KNOCK

The door swings inward, immediately, as if he were standing next to it, waiting for her to come back. _He probably was,_ she thinks. He stares at her. She manages, “Uh…Olivia is very drunk. You need to come get her.” He grumbles, pushes past her, and heads toward the bar.  _Well,_ she thinks, _it could’ve been worse._

No matter how many times Gob sees him, he’s surprised by how huge Charon is. He can’t lie – from time to time he’s envied his size, his strength. But it comes at a price, he thinks. Freedom, in perpetuity _. A price I’d be unwilling to pay._

Since Nova left, Olivia started crying – he’s aware that whatever it looks like, it doesn’t look good, and he doesn’t want to get on Charon’s bad side. He tips his head over at her, and watches as Charon throws her over his shoulder effortlessly, like a sack of potatoes. “How much do we owe you?” he asks.

“Twenty caps, and we’ll call it even."

“I’ll let her know.” Gob watches as he stomps out, leaving the door open.

Nova stops him. “Look…take it easy on her. She’s not feelin’ too good.” He nods, and she watches him until he rounds the corner of Olivia’s house.

* * *

 

He lays her on the bed.

He’s still angry – but it melts away when she looks at him through dull eyes and slurs, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Tears stream down her face. 

“It’s okay, Liv.” He says. “Go to sleep.”

She snatches his hand, grips it tightly in hers. She struggles to focus, to look him in the eyes. “No, no, I – I’m sorry. I shouldn’tve…I love you, and I’m sorry.”

He freezes. She _what_? No. No way. She can’t. “You what?”

She lays her head down on the pillow, closes her eyes, and laughs. “I love you, silly. I love…you,” and she drifts off, still clinging to his arm.

* * *

 

He paces the floor outside the bedroom.

 _She loves me._ It twists in his gut. _She can’t._ How?

He’d ruined her, soiled her. He’d lost control. He can try to justify it, say that it was only a matter of time, but it was his fault. His.

Now Gob knows, he’s sure. He better not fuckin’ tell. _If he does, I’ll_...

For a moment, he sees red. He wants to tear something apart, tear _someone_ apart. Make them pay. For…for what? His own weakness?

She's so fragile that it makes his heart ache. She needs him.

It’s her decision. She can transfer his contract at any time. Still, she hadn’t. _Why?_

He opens the bedroom door, looks in. She’s on her back, sleeping soundly, smile on her face. She looks so serene. Like an angel. His angel. _Wait…HIS?_ He wanted to touch her hair, stroke her face. Maybe he should…no.

How could he ever have thought that she’d consider selling people into slavery for a few bottles of lousy soda? Again, it was his fault. His. He lost his temper, made her uncomfortable in her own home. He drove her to this. _Oh, Liv._ He thinks _. I’m sorry. So, so sorry._

 _No, I shouldn’t. But I want to_. He settles in the chair next to her bed, takes her hand. He looks at their hands. Her small hand, smooth, almost porcelain skin next to his - big, tattered, rough. They are so different. Life holds so many surprises. Should he enjoy this, take it as it comes…or should he resist? A relationship could bring nothing but heartache for the both of them. If someone found out, she’d be a pariah among her own people. They might even risk injury, death – when people get angry, they often want to destroy the object of their rage.

He would protect her to his dying breath.

That’s exactly what he fears.

* * *

 

She wakes in the night. Still woozy from the liquor, she tugs on his arm until he lies down beside her, under the covers. “Mmm…” she purrs, his heavy arm over her, the heat of their bodies gathering under the blanket.

She shifts her weight, lying flat, his hand warm on her soft belly. She can see the sparkle of his eyes, twin stars in the dim light struggling in from between the rusted wall panels. When she reaches up to touch his face, he flinches, and then relaxes. She feels skin, muscle, long, smooth veins, no disgust, no hesitation.

She kisses him. Lightly, tenderly. Sluggishly, he responds to her, returning her gesture. Her hand travels downward, starts to slide underneath his waistband. He pushes her away gently. “No, no.” he whispers softly. “Not like this.” He doesn’t want her to be drunk, to regret what she does with him. He doesn’t want the terrible, awful thought to creep its way into his mind – that she may have to get drunk just to be with him.

She sighs in frustration. She grasps his wrist, and he allows her to guide him down; down to the crotch of her pants. _I shouldn’t, but…_ she presses down on his hand, grinding it into her. She’s breathing faster, whimpering, arching her back. 

His combat services are all his contract entitles her to – he can refuse.

Oh, but she’s so beautiful. So warm. And he’s so weak.

She fumbles with the button of her trousers until he undoes it; zips down the fly. He nuzzles into her neck, sucking, nipping. She guides his hand down, underneath soft cotton, until he feels her – warm and moist, her clit swollen and firm. She gasps when he brushes against it, as he explores her soft folds. He presses a coarse finger against her opening, and she cries out, bucks her hips, inviting him in.

He covers her lips with his own as he gently pushes into her, and almost loses control of himself as she moans into his mouth. He wiggles his finger back and forth inside her, and she tightens around him. _I’m so weak._ He pulls out, pushes back in. _Out, in, out, in._ Gentle strokes. She’s whimpering, moaning. He pulls out, presses his slick fingers to her swollen nub, rubbing slowly, rhythmically. When she begins to pant, he speeds up, and she stiffens, a shrill cry piercing the night.

She relaxes, slumps against him, and drifts off into peaceful blackness.


	6. Apology Accepted

She wakes late in the morning, eyelids sticky. _Well, at least I don’t have a headache. Must’ve stuck to liquor this time._ Beer was notorious for giving her awful hangovers.  _One of these days, I’ll have to find my limit and stick to it._ Her tongue feels swollen, thick, gummy. She needs water. Where’s that damn robot? She rolls over, and meets his eyes.

“Ah!” she yells, surprised. “How long have you been staring at me?”

“Why…does it make you uncomfortable?” he asks.

“A little.”

“About time you got some of your own medicine.”

She stiffens, suddenly remembering why she got drunk in the first place. “Wait…weren’t you mad at me?” She rubs her eyes, trying to jump-start her fuzzy brain.

“I’m not now.” He says.

“May I ask why?”

“You were very…persuasive.” He smiles.

She squints at him. “You didn’t take advantage of me last night, did you?”

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t want me to do.”

She pats herself down – _nope, still clothed. But…_ “Wait, how did this get unbuttoned?”

“You did it. You were very…insistent.” He smirks.

“Oh.”

“You did want to go further, but I didn’t think it was a great idea.”

“Congratulations on your good judgment.” She rolls on her back, rests her arm across her eyes. “I didn’t say anything stupid, did I? If I did, I apologize.”

“No, you did not.”  His body language is wooden; uncomfortable.

“What – what did I say?” He sits up, turns to get off the bed. “Stop.” He freezes.

“You said…” he pauses.

“I said what?”

“You said…that you love me.”

Her mouth goes dry. “I did?”

“You were very drunk. I understand if – “

“I do. I meant it.” _No use denying it now._ She rises, hugs him from behind. She inhales his scent. Sweet copper, leather, gunpowder.

“Why me?” he asks. “Why not somebody normal? There’s plenty of smoothskin guys out there, that – “

She squeezes him, hard. “None of them are you.”

He shakes his head. “You should love someone that can love you back.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, with a soft frown.

“I don’t know what love is. I’ve never loved anyone…like this.”

She kisses his neck. “There’s a first time for everything.”

* * *

 

“What would you like to eat tonight?” she asks. They’re sitting in the spare room, curled up on the sofa, he’s reading, and she’s drawing in her sketchbook, her feet resting in his lap.

“Whatev-“

She interrupts him, waving her hand in the air. “Whatever I find appropriate. I know, I know.” She sounds irritated.

“Have I displeased you?”

“No, no.” she shakes her head. “I’m just a little frustrated. I just want you to be able to make your own decisions.” She leans her head back, closes her eyes.

“Liv, I haven’t made any decisions on my own for almost two hundred years. It’s gonna take a while.” She sighs and recrosses her ankles. He readjusts, and nudges her feet a little. “Whoa, watch out there. Little too close for comfort.”

“Whoops, sorry!” She smirks, “wouldn’t want to accidently invalidate your contract.”

“Yeah, make jokes, too. That shit smarts.”

“Oh, I’ve found something he’s sensitive about.” She says.

“All guys are sensitive about it, not just me.” He tenses up, indignant. “Personally, I’d rather get shot than get hit…there.” She lifts her eyebrows. _Wow._ “You just don’t understand because your…equipment…isn’t on the outside.”

“Well, I have boobs. They’re right here up front.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you definitely have those.” She blushes. “But that’s hardly a comparison.” He sets his book down. “Now, do you mind if we stop talking about my…business? And start talking about dinner?”

* * *

 

She winds up in the kitchen, heating up a couple cans of Pork ‘n Beans. He sits and watches her cook, the graceful way she’s stirring the beans in the pot makes her breasts bounce side to side, slightly. She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, absentmindedly. “Hey, why am I in here cooking?” she asks.

“Well, you didn’t order me to. And you are female, so –“

She whips her head at him, “Chauvinist. Want me to bring your brandy, cigar, and slippers?” she replies, jokingly.

He leans back in the chair, crosses his arms behind his head, thoughtfully. “That would be nice.” She tosses a spatula at him, which comes nowhere close, but he ducks anyway. “You could get yourself all dolled up, put on a dress.”

“You’re playing with fire,” she says, half-seriously, as she spoons the contents of the saucepan into bowls.

“Can’t help it. I like to live dangerously.” He laughs. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be with you.” She crosses the room, hands him his bowl.

“It’d be a good idea not to piss off the person who cooks your food.”

They eat in silence for a while, then she says, “I have a few Quantums here. I figure we can take what I have to Sierra – the woman in Girdershade – and go look for more near Olney.”

“How many does she want?”

“Thirty. Enough to fill her machine.”

He snorts. “You’d think she’d have somethin’ better to do. Like stayin’ alive.”

She squints at him. “I’d hold my judgment if I were you. I collect bobbleheads.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t payin’ forty caps apiece for ‘em.”

“True.” She takes his bowl from him, starts to wash their dishes in the sink. “We can spend a few days here if you want. Rest up a bit. Get a little down time.”

“Sounds good. I’d like to read a little. Maybe talk a bit.” He smirks. “See what makes you tick.” She laughs.

“So, you think you can figure me out, huh?”

He strides over to her, hugs her from behind. “Maybe not. But I can learn how to push your buttons.” He pushes her head to the side, kisses her neck. She giggles, pulls away, and he whispers into her ear, “your neck is so soft…” he kisses her neck again, opens his lips, and starts sucking, tongue brushing against her, the taste and smell of her intoxicating. Dust, sweat, the faint ghost of the soap at Tenpenny…

Her knees begin to shake, her legs rubber underneath her. “Oh, stop...” she whispers, breathless. He freezes, lips on her neck. “I want to run this show tonight.” She pushes his head away. “How about you go upstairs and read? I’ll be up in a bit.” He groans.

“I have things to do down here. If I don’t do them, no one will.” She says, in a stern tone.

“Make the robot do it. I want you now.” He blurts, frustrated.

“Go.” She orders. “Trust me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He grumbles all the way upstairs.

She finishes cleaning the dishes, then looks at her face in the mirror above the sink. There’s a faint red mark where he’d sucked on her neck. _He's worse than a teenage boy._  She looks herself in the eyes. _What am I doing?_   She searches for an answer; finds none. _So, he’s the one._ She’d waited for Butch, hoped he’d come. They'd kept their relationship a secret in the vault, knowing that the Overseer wouldn't approve. She’d loved him. _Well, I thought I did._ She thinks of the man upstairs – Charon, not God. _I’d have a bone to pick with God, if I could talk to him._ She nixes that line of thought – if she gets caught up in philosophical rumination, she’ll spend the whole night staring at herself in the mirror.

She’s changed so much since she left the vault last year. Stronger, wiser, more realistic. Her skin is crisscrossed with scars, and she laments over the smooth porcelain skin she’d had in the vault – stimpaks heal fast, but that healing comes at a price. She starts to feel guilty. Charon probably doesn’t even notice the scars, she thinks. It’s skin – something that he’ll never have again. What’s left of his is tough, resembling tanned leather. Its texture is beautiful, she thinks – and it doesn’t escape her notice that she criticizes her own skin while seeing the beauty of his.

She had always wanted to be an artist, to make beautiful things. Of course, there was no job in the vault for an artist – if she wanted to create something, she’d had to do it on her own time. At one time, she thought that she could live with that. Then dad left, and she took off after him. Survival trumped her dreams.

She hopes that she doesn’t become too hard. The wastes have a way of hardening people; making them cynical.

She thinks of Charon, and smiles. He’s probably waiting up there for her, paying no attention to his book. She didn’t tell him how long to read, so he’s probably just sitting, stewing, anxious, going crazy for her. It feels nice to be wanted. She’d worked off a little steam with a few guys around the wasteland – she remembers it as little more than mechanical, each one of them consumed with their own needs. She’d fooled around with Butch before she left the vault – she thought it was getting serious, then found out he’d had other ideas about what their relationship should be. He’d used her, and back then she would have done anything to make him love her.

This is different. Emotional. He doesn’t reciprocate verbally, but his eyes, his actions, and his body language tells her all she needs to know about how he feels. She’d never known such passion. She’d never lost herself when she was with someone – even the first time, when, hormones raging, she and Butch had snuck into a storage room and consummated their relationship.

She’d been so naïve.

She shakes her head. She shouldn’t keep him too much longer.

* * *

 

His heart jumps in his throat when she enters the doorway. He moves to get up, but she motions for him to stay where he is. He sits the book down on the floor and watches her pad into the room, her shapely bare feet whispering softly towards him.

She straddles him, rests in his lap. Spots of water dot her shirt; her arms are damp up to her elbows. She guides his hands to her waist, arching her back luxuriously as he slips a calloused hand underneath her shirt and caresses her back. She leans forward then, her soft lips meeting his rough, dry ones, parting them a little at first, then he opens them wide, inviting her in.

She breaks her mouth away, pushes back, meets his milky eyes. He can feel her soft breasts against his chest, nipples stiff, straining against her thin shirt. He cups her tight ass, kneads it through her pants. “Would you like to take this somewhere…more comfortable?” she coos.  She flattens a hand on his chest, pushes against him and stands. She grasps his hand, guides him up, and into the bedroom. “Lie down.”

She grips the hem of her shirt and peels it off, slowly removes her pants, her underwear. She stands before him, naked except for her Pip-Boy, and reaches behind her head, and takes down her hair. It cascades over her shoulders, shines, radiant, dark gold. She straddles him, and he pulls her closer, takes a nipple in his mouth, nips, sucks. She shudders and moans, overcome by the sensation of his hands on her back, his mouth on her. She leans back, her fingers trailing down to his waist, exploring up underneath the hem of his shirt. He bucks upward, peeling his shirt off in one swift, coordinated movement.

Their hands explore each other’s bodies, until she can take it no longer.

She edges back, unclasps his belt. He lies frozen, his breath caught in his throat. It feels as if it’s been hours, but it must have taken only seconds for her to unbutton his pants and seize his aching length in her hand. His eyes close and his head falls back, as she strokes him gently, up and down, up and down.

Then, abruptly, she stops.

He opens his eyes to find her looking at him, a devious smile on her lips. She removes his pants with a few yanks and some frustrated fumbling. He reaches out to her, and she climbs atop him, lowering herself down on him slowly, with a whimper and a shudder. _She’s so wet, so warm._ She rocks her hips slowly, forward and back, earning a delicious moan from him. His hands meander over her body, squeezing, stroking. They slide down; grip her hips, pulling her down onto him, grinding underneath her, encouraged by her soft moans. She grips his forearms and leans backward, rocking faster.

He looks up at her – breasts bouncing, lips parted, hair tossing wildly as she bounces on top of him vigorously. She’s so beautiful that his heart aches. His eyes roam to where they meet – soft against rough, and a loud moan escapes him.

He pulls her gently towards him onto all fours, puts his lips to her neck, and sucks deeply, and her moans become louder, wilder. Suddenly, she stiffens and cries out, bucks against him, squeezing him hard, so hard he looses himself into her, his growl muffled by her soft neck.

* * *

 

In the morning, there’s a hesitant knock at the door.

Olivia answers, tentatively peeking out the crack. “Hiya, sweetie,” says Nova. “Gob asked me to check in on you.”

Olivia opens the door wider and steps out, smiling shyly. “I’m doing a lot better.”

The bold little redhead flashes a wicked smile. “I can see that.” She leans in close to Olivia’s ear and whispers, “Nice hickey ya got there.” Olivia blushes, and covers the right side of her neck with her hand, in near-panic. Nova chuckles. “Other side, dear.”

“Thanks.” Olivia’s eyes dart around nervously.

Nova gives her a lopsided smile. “Look, I’m not gonna judge. You know what I did for a livin’ before Moriarty kicked it. I won’t tell nobody.”

“Thanks.”

“A word of advice? If he loves you, don’t let him go.” She sighs, wistfully. “You’ll only make that mistake once, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” Nova pats her arm, turns around, and heads back to the bar to help Gob open up for the day.

* * *

 

“God DAMN it!” Olivia’s looking in the mirror, studying a large, very conspicuous dark red hickey on her neck. Charon’s in the bedroom – taking his time getting dressed, apparently.

“CHARON!” she yells.

“Yes, Liv?” he replies, obediently.

“Get your ass down here, ASAP!”

He runs, takes the stairs two at a time, barefoot, carrying his boots. “What do you need?”

She looks at him, points at her neck. “What is this?”

“Uh...it looks like a hickey.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, thanks for giving it to me, Romeo. How am I gonna cover this?” He stands silent, and shifts nervously from foot to foot. “I can’t leave the house like this. If I do, everyone’s gonna know who gave it to me. Thank GOD Nova was the one that knocked on the door instead of Simms, or Jenny.”

“Nova?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah. The redheaded lady from the bar. Now two people, aside from us, know.” She sighs, loudly. “Good going.”

“Do you wish to punish me?” he asks.

“Punish you? For a hickey?” she laughs. “Jesus, no. Just…be more mindful next time. Or, maybe keep them below the neckline.”

He smirks. “Understood.”

 

 


	7. A Change of Plans

“I think that one’s a few short of a six pack.” Charon muses.

“Now, Charon, that’s not a nice thing to say about Sierra.” Olivia scolds.

“It may not be nice, but it’s true.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shakes one out, then lights it. “And all that guy wants is to get in her pants.”

“Haha! You sure called that one. You know, he actually offered me more money to give the Quantums to him, so that he could give them to her?” she says.

He laughs.

“I know, what a creep, huh? And he also _insinuated_ that I wasn’t attractive enough for him.” She scowls, her ego still a little bruised from the insult.

“Must be hard, being dumb _and_ blind.” Charon says. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him lovingly. He takes a long drag on his cigarette as they head east. “So…where to next?” he asks.

“I’d like to eventually make our way up to Old Olney, search the roads around there.” She stops. “Actually, now that I think about it, we should stop at Rivet City. I know it’s really, really, far out of the way, but I’d like to check on someone.”

He sighs in frustration. “Make up my mind.”

“Hey, look at it this way: we’ll have plenty of time to talk. There’s a lot I’d like to know about you.” He smiles wanly. “You’re not exactly a Chatty Cathy.” He rolls his eyes at her as they head eastward.

* * *

 

“No, no, not tonight, I’m sore!” Over the past three days, it’s been a battle just to fight his hands off her. Insatiable.  _Like a teenage boy,_ she thinks.  _I'm beginning to see a pattern._ She doesn’t want to order him to stop bugging her, but it’s approaching that point. He grumbles pathetically. “Look now, why don’t you give me a couple days, and you can… _take care of yourself_ in the meantime?” she suggests.

He squints at her. “You mean…?”

“Yes.” She jerks a loose fist in front of her, like she saw the boys in the vault do when they were joking around. He rubs his eyes and groans, trying not to laugh. “I know you’re trying to make up for lost time, but I need a rest, big guy.”

After dinner, they sat against a wall, smoking. “So…how long has it been? Before me?”

He shifts uncomfortably.

“That’s okay.” She says. “If you’re embarrassed, I don’t have to know.”

He shakes his head. “It has to’ve been ten years. Maybe more. As I have said before, my employers did not often allow me creature comforts. That includes women.”

“I’m sorry.” She leans up against him. A few minutes pass, and she speaks. “After the purifier, I was…sad. I lost purpose. I drank a lot. I had a few guys, looking for comfort, but I didn’t find it.” She squirms. “They were as sad and empty as I was.” He puts his arm around her and squeezes. “Please don’t judge me.”

“I’m not gonna judge you. The last woman I had, Ahzrukhal paid for.”  She shakes her head. “They negotiated the price right in front of me. It was…humiliating.”

“Negotiated?” she asks.

He elaborates. “Yeah, when she saw me, she was, uh…concerned.”

“For her safety?”

He snorts. “Yeah. That too.”

Reading the subtext, she groans. “Oh, man. You’ve _got_ to be kidding.”

He takes a drag on his cigarette and smirks. “Hey, you try to keep a straight face while the size of your, uh… _body parts_ are discussed openly in public.” _Like a piece of property_ , he thinks.

“Well, in her defense…” She glances up at his annoyed expression, clutches her stomach and wails with laughter, falling against him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she manages between guffaws. She wipes the tears from her eyes. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah, it is kinda funny, now that I think about it.” He admits.

She smiles at him. “And flattering.”

 “That too.”


	8. Mine

“Ahoy, mateys!” she jokes, over the intercom.

She gets a tinny chuckle in return. “Please state your business.”

“Here to visit Chief Harkness.” She answers.

A pause, then: “Please step back, and wait for the bridge to extend.”

As she approaches the guard, she sneers and shouts, “Arrr! Prepare to be boarded!” Charon shakes his head and groans. She can be so serious one moment, and the next, she’s playing pirate like an eight-year-old. One of the guards raises an eyebrow to him, and he shrugs. _That’s just the way she is, Jack. Don’t ask me._

“It’s his day off,” the guard says. “He’s probably in the Rudder.”

“Thanks!” She looks over her shoulder. “Follow me, Charon – and watch your head.”

* * *

 

“How on Earth do you find anything in here?” Charon asks, as they enter the Muddy Rudder.

“I dunno. I grew up in a vault. Maybe I have a knack for making my way around in metal mazes.” She says. She looks around the room, then points. “Ah! There he is!” She strides up to his little table. “Howya doin’, Hark?”

“Ah, Olivia! Good to see you again. I’m doing a lot better now that Zimmer is gone.” He sips his drink. “For the life of me, I wish I could get drunk. All the guards think I have a hollow leg.” He signals the waitress. “For all I know, I do.”

Olivia sits, and Charon stands behind her chair. “I’ll have a beer, thanks!” Olivia requests, and everyone looks at Charon. He shifts uncomfortably.

“Well, what would you like?” Olivia asks.

He hesitates. “I am not thirsty.”

“Bodyguard.” She says to the waitress, laughing. “Always working.”

She leans over to Harkness. “Seriously. Are you doing okay? Adapting well?”

“I suppose.” He takes another sip. “Now I don’t worry when I can’t sleep. Guess that’s a plus.” He chuckles. “Oh – we got another vault kid in a few months ago. He should be getting off work soon.”

“Oh, really? Who?” Olivia leans back as the waitress slides her beer in front of her.

“Says his name’s Butch. Pretty darn good barber.”

Charon sees Olivia stiffen, touches her arm. “I see.”

Harkness drains his drink and gets to his feet. “Well, kids – I gotta go act like I’m sleeping. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

She sits and nurses her beer, his hand resting reassuringly on the back of her arm. She’s about to get up to leave when Butch enters – impossibly clean, swaggering, hair perfect. “Hey, Liv!” he shouts. He jogs up to the table, and pulls up a chair. “So, howya been? Still livin’ in Megaton?”

“I’m doing…good.” She says. “I still live in Megaton, but I’m gone a lot. Scavenging. Odds and ends.” She thrusts a thumb over her shoulder. “This is my bodyguard, Charon.”

Charon offers a curt nod. “Man of few words, huh?” Butch says. “Cool.” He turns her attention back to her. “Wanna stay down here for a while? Have a drink?”

“Oh, I dunno…”

“C’mon Liv. Don’t be such a party pooper.”

* * *

 

Two drinks later and they’re laughing together, reminiscing about life in the vault. Charon is standing still as a statue behind her with his hand still on her arm. He’s trying his best to calm himself– he’s not stupid; he knows they have a history. They act too intimate for it to have been just a friendship. It makes him angry and confused. She didn’t tell him anything about this boy.

He almost loses it when Butch touches her hand, but a subtle gesture from her holds him back.

They go to their room at the Weatherly, which she purchases while he goes to the john. They don’t want anyone thinking that they are, well, _together._

As soon as the door closes, he confronts her.

“Who was he?” he asks.

“Someone I knew in the vault.”

“He’s more than that.” He’s angry, and his tone betrays him.

“Yes. We were…intimate.”

His face goes slack, his eyes glassy, and his mantra reappears. _I am a stone._ “Charon, don’t do that.” She doesn’t intend for it to sound like an order, but it does.

His eyes refocus, and rest on her. “Do what?”

“Emotionally detach.” She says.

His eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?” he asks.

“Because the wasteland is a big place. I didn’t expect to ever see him again. I didn’t see a reason to tell you.” She sighs. “Don’t worry. We didn’t part…amicably.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“We were in public, we had to play nice. I understand you’re angry. I felt you stiffen up when he touched me.” She turns to the small desk, to pour herself a drink. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

 He scowls, thinking,  _I want to squeeze his scrawny neck so hard his greasy little head pops off._ He growls, fumes. “He has no right to touch you.” 

“Why not?”

He answers impulsively, a little louder than he should. “Because you’re _MY_ woman!”

She freezes, then sets the bottle down, turns her head to glance at him over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Say again?”

He stomps, a loud metallic thump. “You’re _MY_ woman!” he repeats, indignantly. He points at the door. “Not his!”

 She strides over to him. “Do you think you own me?” she asks.

“No.” He’s suddenly anxious, fully aware that his programming cannot save him here. These are uncharted waters. “But you…you are mine.”

She lunges forward and hugs him fiercely, crying. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?” he asks, alarmed. _What did I do?!_

“No,” she says, between sobs. He wraps his arms around her. When she quiets, she looks up at him, a sad smile on her tear-stained face. “I’ve always wanted…someone to fight for me. To…claim me for their own.”

“He never did?”

“No. Never.” She sniffs.

He sways her gently back and forth. “You are tired. Perhaps we should go to sleep.”

“Yes, let’s.”

* * *

 

It’s warm underneath the sheets together. With the lights turned off, it’s dark as a tomb.

She whispers, “Say it again. That I’m yours.”

He brushes her cheek, kisses her forehead.  “You are mine.”

She moans, kisses him, forcing her tongue in between his warm, dry lips. His hand wanders up her shirt, caresses her back. “Oh, Charon. Make me yours,” she gasps. He quickly slips out of the shorts he was sleeping in, and tugs her nightshirt off of her.

Sliding in between her legs, he can feel the heat pouring off of her moist center. He groans as he pushes inside her, slowly, gently. “Say it again,” she pleads.

“You are mine.” He whispers, between gasps. “My woman.”

“Yes. Oh! Yes...” she murmurs, wrapping her legs around his waist, thrusting her hips up to meet his. They are quiet, painfully quiet – sound carries here, and they must be careful especially after his earlier outburst. Just doing this is a risk, but she couldn't help herself. She’s mewling furtively, panting, her warm wetness squeezing him rhythmically.

He senses that she’s on the precipice. He thrusts harder and deeper, leans over to her ear, and growls, “MINE.”

She gasps and stiffens, her climax eliciting from her a long, gentle moan. He comes soon after, a few more thrusts in her tight wetness, a shudder, soft grunt. He stays poised above her, softening inside her. She stretches her neck up and kisses him chastely. He can feel her smiling in the dark underneath him.

_I am hers, and she is mine._


	9. A Declaration

 

They’re in a settlement called Arefu, little more than a collection of shacks on an overpass. “I just wanted to check on you, see how you were adjusting,” Liv says to a young man.  The man and his sister insist on feeding them and allow them to stay for the night, after thanking her profusely. They aren’t specific, but Charon gathers that Liv did something for them in the past. Something valuable. He doesn’t ask questions – it isn’t his business.

They sleep on bunk beds, so close, yet so far away. Her above, him below. It drives him mad. He wants to feel her body next to him, her warmth, her smell, her…everything. He silences his urges with difficulty – they’ve become almost unbearable. He’s drunk with lust, and yet…he hasn’t even told her…no. He can’t.

Morning comes far too late for him. He packs in haste, eager to leave. “You can’t wait to get me alone, can’t you?” she asks.

“I’m sorry, I – “ he starts.

She brushes against him. “No need to be sorry. The feeling is mutual.” The road home is long. He fights himself. He wants to take her in the dirt, feel her…

“Hello out there!” Stockholm calls.

“Heya, Stockholm! How’s everything?” she asks.

“Oh, same old, same old.” He replies. “Hey! He yells, to someone down below him. “Open the gate! It’s the Vault Girl!” The gate screeches open, metal grinding against metal.

“I have a little work to do. Think you can keep yourself occupied?” she asks Charon. He nods. _Whatever you want,_ he thinks. He can’t help but follow her lead.

* * *

 

_“Monster!”_

_“Beast!”_

_“Run!”_

_He can smell their fear; taste the sweet coppery blood on his lips. It excites him._

He sits bolt upright in bed, gasping. Where is he?

Oh yes – Megaton. She stirs, sits up, and rubs his back to soothe him. “Another nightmare?” she asks, sleepily. He would never admit such a thing to anyone else. But they are impossible to hide now. They never sleep alone at home, not since the factory, since…

“Yes.”

“It’s okay.”

“I do not deserve your love. I do not deserve your…” he trails off.

She urges him to lie back down. “My what?” she asks, against her better judgment.

“Your kindness.” _You don’t know what I’ve done._

“You do.” She sounds sure, unwavering.

Given hours of leisure time, without constant vigilance against threats to focus his thoughts, memories had begun to flood back into his conscious mind. The ones he retained had become clearer – sadly, few of these were joyful, happy ones. They shocked him. It was as if he were experiencing the pain and fear and shame all over again.

He cannot allow himself to love. The programming prevents it. It has to. _Conditioning,_ he reminds himself. _They_ called it conditioning. But it’s easier to think of it as programming – then he could act as if he were a machine, a stone without feeling. Without mercy.

His mother primed him. She sowed the seeds of rage in him. The war machine and its scientists, they cultivated it, and plucked the vicious fruit.

He is a monster, a beast. A thing of war. He does not deserve her love.

“I love you,” she says, and squeezes him tight. She expects no answer, and receives none.

* * *

 

 _She’s spent half the day scribbling on that pad_ , he thinks.

When she heads to the kitchen to fix lunch, he pauses at the tool bench, curious. Quietly, he crosses the room and picks up her sketchbook, and starts flipping through it.

 _She’s very good,_ he thinks. There’s a drawing of someone who he assumes to be her father – a middle-aged man with a sorrowful smile. There’s one of a sleeping dog. The same dog with its head cocked. Then another, sitting.

He can hear her fiddling in the kitchen as he flips through the pages. There’s wildlife – a mole rat, a yao guai. A radscorpion so real it looks as if it could jump off the page. Then…one of him, sitting, vigilant. A drawing of his hand, with a cigarette in it. In another one, he’s cleaning his shotgun.

It never occurred to him that she would draw him. He didn’t put much thought into what she was drawing, really. He is a living weapon, a soldier – artwork doesn’t interest him much. He never asked her what she was drawing, or why.

He flipped the next page, and gaped.

In the drawing, he was leaned up against a wall, shirtless. One thumb was hooked nonchalantly in a belt loop, the other hand held a cigarette to his lips. He could see the strength and power in his muscles, even at rest. Everything was rendered in loving detail – she had spent much time on this, probably in his presence, and definitely without his knowledge.

As far as he knows, he never posed exactly like this – so she had to use her imagination to do it. He is spellbound. It is…beautiful. This is how she sees him in her mind. No wonder she doesn’t mind looking at him, touching him…making love to him.

Footsteps approach him, and then stop abruptly. She sees him staring at her sketchbook, mouth open, and panics. She quickly deposits her bowl on the counter and rushes to scoop up the book. “I’m sorry, I -” she starts, but it’s cut off with his lips on hers, his insistent tongue forcing them open. One of his hands grips her head and forces it towards him, while the other slides up the back of her tank top, pulling her into him. She’s surprised and a little scared.

When he releases her, he turns and picks up the book. “Liv…is this how you see me?” he asks.

She looks at the drawing, then blushes, embarrassed. “Yes,” she says, fidgeting. She never expected anyone but her to see those drawings. He usually ignored her while she was drawing – she had always assumed that he didn’t care.

“Oh, Liv...I had no idea,” he whispers into her ear. Both of them are breathing heavily, there’s a tension between them now that wasn’t there before. As if responding to an unknown force, they start peeling clothes off. His shirt goes one direction. Her thin cloth shorts another. His pants crumple to the floor, and she’s pinned up against the wall, his hands in her hair, his lips on hers, her tongue dancing in his mouth. He stoops, lifts her by her thighs. In an instant, he enters her, and her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper into her.

She can feel the cold metal against her back; the initially painful but achingly sweet sensation of him filling her, over and over again. She moans loudly, not caring who hears. Something that feels this good _has_ to be right.

He grunts as he thrusts into her, the feeling of her – warm, wet, and _oh, so tight –_ overpowering. Her smooth legs around his waist, her delicate arms around his neck make him thrust harder, faster, her piercing cries pushing him over the edge. His gravelly shout fills the room, and after a brief moment of rest, they both gradually disentangle from one another. He eases her down gently, slowly.  He brings her close, hugs her to him, and kisses her forehead.

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene in this chapter is one of my most favorite scenes, hands-down. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	10. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a general warning - there's some very emotional, possibly shocking things in this chapter, so prepare yourself. I don't do "trigger warnings," so you're on your own.

They’re sitting on the sofa that Liv had bought from Moira, cuddling. She'd decided that they’d outgrown the chairs, and he agreed – he felt like he was risking a close encounter with the floor every time he sat in one. He’s munching on an apple, watching her draw. When she pauses to take a drink of her Nuka, he grabs the book and turns the page to the drawing of the man with the sad smile. “Who is this man? Your father?” He asks, comparing the drawing’s features to hers. Same cheekbones, same nose, the set of the eyes.

“Yeah.” She says. She’s told him how her father died. “Gone forever.” She says, regretfully. “He was all I had. Before you.”

Charon flips through the pages, confused. “You don’t have a drawing of your mother?”

“Never had one,” she states, frankly.

“Surely you had a picture, something.”

“I didn’t even know her, Charon.” She pointed at the drawing of her dad. “You see, how his face is…alive? You don’t get this from a photo. You get it from love, from life, from memories.” She flips to the drawing of Charon leaning against a wall, the one that awed him. “Like this one.” She smiles up at him. He squeezes her, kisses the top of her head.

“What about your parents, Charon? What were they like?” He starts. He hadn’t thought about them – or, more precisely, _her_ – in a while. He doesn’t hear an order to answer, so he stays silent and watches her flip back to the drawing of her dad. “What was your father like?” she asks.

“Dunno. Never really had one.” He says, matter-of-factly.

She gasps. “Really?”

“Really. He was a military man. Gone all the time.” He says, frankly.

“So you had a mother? What was she like?” she was curious, understandably.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Liv, you don’t wanna know.” For some reason, these memories are some of the clearest he has. He doesn’t remember the military – only flashes, his buddies’ faces, not their names. He remembers nothing of his conditioning except vague sensations – needle pricks, cold exam tables, pain. But his childhood – yes, he can remember it. Vividly. Terror cements memories; it’s part of being the human animal – we remember so we can learn, so we can avoid being hurt the next time.

“Yes, I do.” She says, indignantly.

He pushes her aside, walks into the kitchen and finds a glass, which he half-fills with scotch. He takes two gulps in quick succession, and then fills it again. When he returns to the living area, she’s sitting on the arm of the couch, watching him intently, with a frown on her face. He touches her cheek, gently. “You don’t need that stuff rattlin’ around in your head. Bad enough it has to live in mine.” He doesn’t want to make her cry. Invariably, all the women he told had cried. She was fragile enough emotionally, they didn’t need this.

“But I want to know. I want to know…who you are.”  The breath catches in his throat. He struggles, briefly, to control his emotions, grateful for the conditioning, the programming.

He sits on the couch, hunched over his glass, staring with unfocused eyes on the floor. “I was beaten. Called names. For as long as I can remember.” She gasps. He sips his drink. “After a while, bein’ hit – it doesn’t hurt so much. You get used to it. Cuts heal. Bruises go away. But the things she said – the names – those stay with you forever.” He pauses. “She called me stupid. Said I wouldn’t amount to jack shit. That I ruined her body.”

He swirls his glass. “She was an alcoholic.” He takes a drink. “My favorite times were when I came home from school and she wasn’t there. I felt safe, at least for a few hours.” He sighs. “If I got home and her car was there, and she’d been drinkin’ for a while…”

“I’m sorry.” Olivia whispers.

“Yeah…everyone was. Not enough to do anything, though.” He says, bitterly.

“You mean, people _knew_?”

“Oh yeah, people knew. My own grandmother knew. Ma’s mom. Did nothin’. “ He lifts his drink in the air. “Although, she was the only one to apologize. After I left home. A day late and a dollar short.” He tosses back the rest of the scotch.  “Most people didn’t believe me though. Everyone liked her; she was the party girl. Even when I told, no one believed that she’d ever hit her son, yell at ‘im, or call him ugly names.” He shakes his head. “Even then, people didn’t want to believe that a woman would beat her kid. If it was my dad that was beatin’ me, I may’ve got help, but since it was her…” She’s quiet, spellbound. This is the longest he’s ever talked, and it doesn’t sound like he’s finished.

He gets up from the couch, and walks into the kitchen. As he pours more scotch, he grabs a big plastic stirring spoon, shows it to her, then sets it back down on the counter.  “The last time she hit me, I was seventeen.” _Sip._ “Shortly before I left for boot camp.” He chuckles. “I had the balls to mouth off to her. She snatched it off the counter, went for my head, and I put my arm up.” He touches the back of his forearm absentmindedly. “Bruised it up pretty bad; drew blood.” He stares off, eyes glassy, unfocused. “Sometimes, she hit me for just lookin’ like my dad.” He didn’t understand it then – it was nothing he could help, that he had any control over. He was just a little boy. A scared little boy. He knows now…that she was scared, too. He knows that she was angry, and the only person on whom she felt that she could take out that anger – at herself, at fate, at the world, he didn’t know – was on her son. “There was nothing I could do to please her.”

He falls silent and stands in the kitchen, drinking his scotch, filling the glass again. He does not want to go to Liv, to see the look on her face – but he lifts his glass and approaches her, compelled to. And there it is – _the look._ A mixture of horror and pity that twists his heart. He doesn’t want to see this on her face, but he can’t look away. Tears roll down her cheeks. There’s something else there, too.  _She’s angry._ Her fists are balled up in her lap, as if she could find his mother and pay her back for every word, every blow that she’d dealt him.

“There’s nothing you can do, Liv. I’m broken. I can’t be fixed.” His words are starting to slur, his inhibitions melting away. He finds it ironic that he finds solace in the very thing that fueled his mother to abuse him. It may take a lot to get him drunk, but tonight he drank too quickly, carelessly.

She embraces him. “I’ll do more than anyone else ever did for you. I’ll try.”

* * *

 

When he starts to sway on his feet, she guides him to bed, with soft hands and a gentle order. She smiles, thinking of the times he had to bring her up here when she’d drank just a little too much. As she helps him down to the bed, he grabs her and kisses her – a little too hard – and gropes her roughly. She reprimands him softly. “Later. Go to sleep.”

She watches his chest rise and fall with each breath in the dimness. So this is why he doesn’t like to be touched, she thinks. It’s not because he’s a ghoul, it’s because it hurts him. He doesn’t know casual, gentle touch. He was trained by his mother to find touch uncomfortable, an unspoken threat.

She couldn’t help but analyze his responses to her – all the times he’d flinched away, or given her a wide berth. How must it have felt, to fear the person that was supposed to love you and take care of you? To associate love with pain? Tears obscure her vision again, and she wipes them away on a shirtsleeve. She thinks of how much self-control it must take for him to cuddle with her. She knows now that he doesn’t do it because he wants to. He tolerates it because it makes her happy – and that makes him happy.

She thinks of how gentle he can be when they’re making love, and it confuses her for a second. Then she realizes that those things are stripped away from him then, leaving him open, raw. His love for her overcomes all the pain, the anger, the shame. For just a little while, he can forget who he is. _For a brief moment, I take his pain away_. Her heart aches for him. She steps outside and closes the door. Before she knows what’s happened, she’s sitting against the wall next to the door, knees to her chest, sobbing.  _Crying doesn’t help anything_ she thinks, but she cries anyway.

* * *

 

He wakes after only a few hours – his body metabolizes alcohol so fast, it doesn’t take long to flush it out of his system. Plus, he’s gotta piss like a Russian racehorse. _How much scotch did I drink, anyway_? After searching the bed for her, sweeping his arm back and forth, he goes to look for her. She’s sitting up against the wall next to the door.  He sees wet spots on her shirtsleeves, on her pants. She cried herself to sleep. For him. He shakes his head, picks her up, and gently places her on the bed.

He heads out to the common bathrooms and does his business, and as he washes his hands he marvels at her tenacity. The few women that he can remember dating tried to fix him, make him better – it never worked. He vaguely remembers crying, arguments, and the pain of wanting to reach out so badly but being overcome by fear. He shakes the water off his hands as he walks back home. _You’d think after more than two hundred years, that shit would go away,_ he thinks. But it never does. It’s part of him, for good or ill.

No one had ever said what she’d said, though.

“I’ll do more than anyone else ever did for you. I’ll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Charon’s past sounds incredibly vivid, it’s because…it’s mine. Everything – the names, the beatings, people not believing me – everything. Even the military dad, gone too much to do anything. The grandmother that apologized for not helping – too little, too late. The seed of rage that blossomed when I joined the military. I too, take comfort in alcohol from time to time – the same substance that drove my mother to abuse me. Writing about "the look" was one of the hardest things I’ve done. It’s something that all abused children know – the inability of their peers to relate to their experience. When we try to talk about it, that’s the look we get – a look of mingled horror and pity – and after a while, we might stop trying to reach out.  
> But don’t give up on us.


	11. Reciprocation

“Are you okay?” He asks. Liv is sitting at the patio table watching the Simms kid and the little girl playing a lively game of Regulators and Raiders.

“I’m fine.” She says, meekly.

He lifts her chin, revealing her eyes brimming with tears. “No, you are not.” Painfully aware that they’re always being watched here – and everywhere – his touch is agonizingly brief. She sniffs. “Do you wish to go inside and speak about it?” he asks. This is concerning – he does not like to see her cry; it reminds him of her outburst shortly after she purchased his contract. She was bedridden for almost two days, overcome by grief. He remembers feeling lost, uncertain, restless... 

“Yes.” She wipes her tears off on a shirt sleeve and gets slowly to her feet. After he closes and locks the door behind them, she flops on the couch and wrings her hands in her lap. He sits next to her, rests his heavy hand on both of hers reassuringly. “It hurts me…to watch them,” she says, staring blankly at the wall.

“Why?” he asks gently. Their play was joyful, happy.

“Because… they are something I can never have.”

He frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“Charon, I can’t have children. The radiation, the injuries…” she trails off, and crumples in on herself, sobbing with her head in his lap. Startled, he rubs her arm, runs his fingers through her hair. Of all the things he knows about her, all the intimate moments they’ve shared…she had never told him this. It is something she holds close to her, a pain she is reluctant to share. He had never given a second thought to children. Terrified of the possibility of his horrific past influencing him to hurt his own offspring, he had resolved never to produce any. By the time he might have wanted to change his mind, his skin had begun to slough off and he’d started shooting blanks. He figured that no one would want to touch him again anyway, so it never would be that much of an issue.

He was wrong, evidently.

She has to admit that she doesn’t really know what she wants. It’s hard for her to separate the vault propaganda – PROCREATION IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY – from her own desires.   Try as she might to deny it, it hurts her heart to hear children laugh, to see them play. It reminds her of experiences she will never have, love that will never be shared, opportunities lost forever.

She eats mechanically, then heads to bed early. As always, he follows.

 

* * *

 

 

She yawns and rolls over to face him. “I feel lazy today. I could stay in bed all day.” He rests his hand on her waist, strokes down her naked body.

“No complaints from me.” She lifts a hand to touch his cheek, and he flinches. She frowns, struggles to hold back her emotions. “It takes time.” He says.

Her frown melts into a sad smile, her hand softens.  “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Stop saying that.”

“I’ll say it if I want to say it. I’m sorry for what you went through; because no one else is gonna say it.” She flashes a sly grin. “Besides – who’s gonna stop me – YOU?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah? How?” He lightly drags his fingers up her body then digs in a little deeper on her ribs, causing her to squeal and jump. “No fair!”

“Everything’s fair in love and war!” he straddles her legs, pinning her under him, and tickles her ribs, her underarms, eliciting peals of happy, breathless laughter. “Okay, okay! I promise, I’ll stop.” He stops tickling her. She smiles playfully. “Maybe.”

He starts to tickle her again, and she tries to cover herself, fighting his hands, howling with laughter. “Okay, stop! Stop. I promise.” He comes to rest, hovering over her, on all fours. The atmosphere shifts between them.  She lifts her hands, slides them under his shirt, tentatively caressing the tattered flesh of his back.  His eyes close and his body shudders as he lowers his head, seeking out her soft lips. As he kisses down her neck, a licentious thought strikes him and his kisses trail down, down…

He clambers off the bed, pulls her to the edge, parts her legs, and settles on his knees in between them. As his head dips down, she stops him. “Wait – what are you doing?”

Confused for a second, he frowns. Then it occurs to him that she’s not angry. _She really doesn’t know._ _That selfish little prick._ “Wait…you mean to tell me that you sucked that boy’s –“

She gasps, eyes wide. “Charon!”

“And he didn’t - ?” she shakes her head. _No._

“Then I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’m righting a wrong.” _A terrible, grievous wrong._

He parts her and blows softly, the musky-sweet smell of her – _oh, ambrosia_.   He smiles as he feels her shiver. He slowly slides his tongue through her soft folds, and she moans quietly. Encouraged, he pushes her legs open further, hooks his arms under her legs and grasps her hips, pulling her into him, settling into a steady, gentle rhythm.  He can feel the muscles in her abdomen contract, her soft cries of pleasure sweet music.

Slowing, he shifts downward and slips his tongue inside her. She gasps sharply, surprised. He curls the tip and gently slips in and out of her, delighting in her soft moans. _Time for the pièce de résistance._  He licks upward, finds her swollen nub, and sucks ever so gently, bobbing his head up and down. She grasps the bed sheets and thrusts her hips toward him. The wet smacks and his enthusiastic groans from between her legs make her head swim. She tosses her head back and forth as she feels the warmth spread below her navel.

Her deafening wail fills the room as she snaps her legs closed, trapping his head in between them. Invigorated, he continues his ministrations, slowing gradually, and stopping as her legs fall limply to either side. Smiling, he looks up at her – her chest rising and falling with each deep breath, her arm now draped across her eyes, her lips gently parted in a satisfied smile.

He leans back onto his heels and wipes his mouth on his shirtsleeve. He gets to his feet and lies down on the bed beside her, starts to rub her stomach.  “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks. 

She places her hand on his and smiles.

* * *

 

Later, when she’s sleeping, he finds himself smoking, thinking.

He strokes her hair, thinking of when she first walked into the bar. How fucking miserable he was – but he didn’t dare dream that he could have any better. _Hope is a dangerous thing._ She’d met his eyes when most people tried hard to avoid his gaze. She’d bought his contract – making herself a slave owner, sacrificing her values to make him more comfortable.

She’d let him touch her cigarette in the Metro. She’d fed him well. She’d touched him – not out of necessity, but for camaraderie and comfort. She’d allowed him liquor, and to come and go as he pleased. She’d given him pay, something that no one had ever done since he was bound to the contract.

...and when he could hold himself back no longer, she’d melted in his arms. She’d wanted him, when no one else did.

She’d cried in his arms; laid her own broken soul bare to him. He wishes that he could take her pain away, make her whole again. If it were possible, he’d rip his own heart out and give it to her - if she asked it of him. 

She knows more of his ugly past than anyone ever has.

And still, she loves him. 


	12. Skeletons

They’re lying in bed, sitting against the wall, smoking.

“So…have you ever disobeyed an order?” She asks. She’s been curious about the nature of his conditioning lately, something that he tries to discourage. What little he can remember is vague, jumbled.

“I have tried.”

She pushes harder. “So – no?”

“To resist takes…effort. But it is pointless to try.” He’s uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I am compelled to.” He’s tried to explain to her how the compulsion feels, but she’s failed to understand.  He’s come to realize that she probably never will.

“So, what happens if an employer orders you to hurt them?” she’s tried to poke holes in the contract, find contradictions and loopholes.

He frowns. “That situation has never presented itself.”

“But if it did?”

“I suppose that…as long as it wasn’t life-threatening, then I would have to obey.” To be honest, he’s not quite sure, but she wants an answer, and it seems like what logic would dictate.

She taps her chin with an index finger. “And what if – “

“Liv, can you stop?”  He snaps.

He only takes that tone when he’s starting to get frustrated with her. She freezes. “Sorry. I’m just curious. “

He sighs and shakes his head. “My whole life revolves around that contract. Some days, it was all I could think about.” _I’d like to forget about it, if you don’t mind. At least for a little while._

“Not being able to move or speak unless he told you to…” she trails off.

He elbows her. “Don’t think about it.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette, exhales. “I’ll leave that shit behind me. The future is bright.”

She takes his hand in hers and smiles at him in the darkness. “Indeed it is.”

* * *

 

She’s getting antsy – she sat around plenty in the vault, so she has no intention on sitting still out here. She starts making lists in her head; planning pack inventories as she sips her whiskey and listens to Three Dog’s banter on the radio. They’ve spent most of the afternoon at Gob’s, nursing drinks and catching up on the town gossip. Or, well – she has. Since his admission about his childhood, Charon hasn’t drunk a drop. “Charon, you can go home and start to pack. You don’t have to sit here and watch me drink if you don’t want to.”

“As you wish.” He stops. “I mean, I think I will do that.” He’s started correcting himself lately, in deference to their changed relationship. The automatic responses still linger, however. Habits long held are hard to break.

She smiles at him. “If I need you, I’ll send for you.”

With a smirk, he snorts and walks out door.

It doesn’t take long before she’s approached by a nervous young man with a thin, scruffy beard and mussed brown hair. “Do – do you know who he is?”

_Ugh, not this again._ “You must be new in town. He’s my bodyguard.”

He points at the door. “He killed my family.”

She turns to face him. “Oh yeah? And how do you know that?”

“I’d know that monster anywhere.”

Her eyes narrow as she thumps the rocks glass down on the bar. “Excuse me? What did you just call him?”

“He’s a monster.” The kid is shaking. “I saw him.”

Rage building in her chest, she meets his eyes. “Okay, then. Tell me what happened.” She holds herself back, because there’s still hope that it’s just gossip. Ever since she’d shown up with Charon following close behind, the rumor mill’s run hot and heavy about him. He’s unique – both a gift and a curse.

“It was…thirteen years ago,” the kid says, nervously glancing at the door, as if he expected Charon to return. “He…he told them to run, then...shot them in the back.” Tears are shimmering in his eyes.

“So, how did you survive?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“I’d crawled under the house to get my ball, and…and…” His eyes are wide as saucers; no doubt he’s reliving the moment as he tells it. “When the shooting started, I stayed there.” He started to fold in on himself. “That’s when I saw him. The biggest shuffler I’d ever seen… before or since.” She ignores the epithet – he’s so emotional that she could risk interrupting his narrative, and then she’d never get the whole story. Tears are running freely down his cheeks now. “He told them to run, and he didn’t move a muscle. Just raised his shotgun real slow, and…” he sobs. “My dad, my mom, my sister…Jesus, she was only ten! Ten years old! What kind of monster could do that?”

Her blood runs cold. He’s had nightmares, and she’s never asked what they were about. He’s said that he’s done things that he regrets, but she’s never asked him the specifics. It’s one thing to hear that the person you love did something terrible, but another thing entirely to hear all the gory details straight from the horse’s mouth.

The boy turns, grabs a small knapsack, and shoulders it hurriedly. “Get away from him, before he hurts you.” He crosses the room and runs out the door, as fast as his legs will carry him.

Gob emerges from the back room and glances at her, then to the door. “Olivia, whattaya doin’, scarin’ away my customers?”

“He scared himself away.” Although not entirely true, he left under his own power. She’s not his babysitter.

He notices the worried look on her face, and can’t help but say something. “Did you know that kid? Who was he?”

She frowns. “A ghost from Charon’s past.”

* * *

 

She finishes her drink and walks home, taking her time. _A whole family_ , she thinks. _A ten-year-old girl._ He destroyed a child…the one thing she can never have. He is not a monster. He can’t be – not after what she’s seen; the things he’s told her. She recalls the conversation they’d had late last night. He said that he couldn’t refuse an order –but how can she be sure?

Her doubts make her feel guilty. She trusts him – doesn’t she? What reason would he have to lie? She decides to devise a test. _Trust him or not, I have to know._

When she walks in the door, he’s kneeling next to a pack, stuffing an item into an outside pocket. “Welcome home!” he says, cheerily – then frowns when he sees the look on her face. She’s studying him with curiosity, a question in an expression. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

“I just met someone today. In the bar.” She pats a chair. “Sit.” He obeys, almost mechanically. “He said you killed his family.” His head lowers, and he stares at the floor. _So it’s true._

“He ordered me to kill all of them. Even the children.” His eyes close. “I could not find the boy.” _Then again,_ he thinks,  _I didn't look very hard for him._ She waits. “I led them outside, told them to run. I fought it for…as long as I could. I killed them.”

“Who ordered you to kill them? Why? Was it Ahz – “

“No. Before him.” He clenches his hands into tight fists. “The father…he _disrespected_ my employer. Said something he should’tve. “

“Where is the employer now?”

“Dead.” He swings his head, meets her eyes, and smiles wanly. “I killed him myself, after the contract changed hands.” It was the only one of Ahzrukhal’s orders that he could ever remember enjoying. Although, it was more for his pain at being forced to kill them than vengeance for their deaths.

“Do you enjoy killing?” She’s always wondered this, but has never had the guts to ask him directly. Until now.

“To be honest…yes.” He closes his eyes. “It was the only…release I was offered.” Most employers didn’t permit him chems, alcohol, or even cigarettes. Even a roll in the hay every now and then would’ve been nice, to release some pent-up aggression – but that was rare, too. He hates to admit this – that he’s grown to like killing. It is something he’s good at, but of course, he’s had plenty of practice. No rest for the wicked.

He looks over at her, looks into her eyes, and is surprised to see something he never thought he’d see: a tinge of fear. “Is that what you dream about?” she asks.

“Yes – and others. A long time ago.” He takes a deep breath. “I will always remember her face.”

“The girl?”

“Yes.” He closes his eyes and pictures her: mousy brown hair, her bright blue eyes, unseeing…the gaping red hole in her chest. The hole that he’d put there – the order he’d tried so hard to fight. “I was punished…for telling them to run. For fighting the order.” Resistance was pointless. He always followed orders – to do so gives him a feeling of gratification, no matter how repulsive the order is. Conversely, it is painful to fight an order – a type of pain that’s impossible to put into words.

“How?” He’s talked of punishments before, but he’s been vague about it. She didn’t push him on this subject because she knows it’d hurt her to hear it. She cares for him so much that just the thought of him being hurt…

“The easiest method is withholding food.” His face twitches as he remembers the hunger, the exhaustion, the self-inflicted pain…

She gasps. “That’s horrifying!”

“If not for punishment, you probably wouldn’t have been able to buy my contract.” He hadn’t eaten for almost four days when she’d bought him. One of the few pleasures he’d enjoyed in Ahzrukhal’s employ was making him angry in front of other people, usually by exploiting any loophole he could find in an order. The bar owner’s reputation had depended upon his smoothness, on his negotiation skills. When those failed, his calm exterior stripped away revealing an ugly mask of hate and brutality. She’d caught his former employer at just the right time – fed up with Charon’s passive insubordination, Ahzrukhal was ripe for the sale.

It surprises him when she rests a soft hand on his tightly clenched, tattered fist. “Let’s finish packing and go to bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.” He grasps her hand and brings it to his lips. A silent kiss, filled with gratitude. Her empathy awes him.

_I do not deserve her kindness._


	13. A Gift

“I’m starting to think that you don’t get the point of the contract.” Charon says, irritated. “I’m supposed to follow orders, not help you make decisions.” He likes his comfortable order-following existence at the moment, thank you very much. _I’m not a thinker; I’m a do-er._

“Fine. I order you to help me make decisions.” She says, jokingly.

He buries his head in his hands. “The museum is crawling with ferals.” Going into a tight space with her and her Chinese assault rifle was an accident waiting to happen. It’s only a matter of time before he winds up with a bullet in his ass.

“I’ll have you to back me up.” She shrugs.  “And besides, we can go to visit Underworld while we’re there. It’s been a while since you’ve seen a ghoul – aside from Gob.”

“I looked at those saps every day for a decade. I’ve only known you for a month.” He says, sourly. Ever since his admission of love, he’s been even more reluctant to part from her than he was before. Sharing her attention is a similar matter – he focuses entirely on her because of necessity, while she needs at least occasional contact with others to avoid feeling too isolated. 

“You can’t tell me that you spent that much time there, and never made any friends.” She says, with a frown.

“I did not. They were all…afraid of me. For good reason.” She sighs. She’d heard the stories before, people telling her to avoid the bar if she didn’t want to wind up beaten to a pulp. Gossip eventually worked its way to her, as gossip has wont to do. She heard about broken arms and busted heads, huge bruises – and _that_ wasn’t just idle gossip; it came from Barrows, the authority on all matters medical in Underworld.

“Well, fine. After we find the poster of the Memorial, I’ll visit, and you’ll tag along, I guess.”

“If you insist.”

“Sounds like a plan. Get your shit together, and we’ll head out tomorrow morning, bright and early.” She says, much chirpier than she feels. Neither of them are early risers. He gives her a withering look and starts to dig in his pack.

“Got you something.” He says.

“Oh really?” She claps her hands excitedly. “A surprise!”

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” He waits.

“Okay, closed.”

He’s lucky that his pack is taller than hers; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to conceal it for long. To his surprise, she’s never touched his pack; she considers whatever is in it to be his belongings, even after he explained that she, by contract, owns everything he has. He also has a designated locker in which to store anything that won’t fit in the pack. She’d insisted on paying him – he spends little, squirreling the rest away in a lunchbox in the bottom of the locker for emergencies.  He pulls a nearly pristine combat shotgun from his pack, and places it in her waiting hands. “Open them.”

She opens her eyes and squeals with joy, clutching it to her chest. “When did you have the time to put this together?”

“When you were sleeping…out running errands. Stuff like that.” He says. “It’s for close quarters.” He points at her pack, with her Chinese assault rifle resting against it. “You’re bound to shoot me in the back one day with that thing, spraying bullets everywhere.”

She turns it over in her hands. “I haven’t used shotguns much. You’ll have to teach me.”

He shrugs. “You’ve watched me do it a thousand times. What’s to learn?’

“Well, the kick – “

“Put it in the pocket of your shoulder.” He says, irritably.

“I got a bruise last time.” She complains.

“That’s because you didn’t do it right.” _Well, that’s easy for him to say,_ she thinks.  _He’s used one exclusively for years. He’s practically an expert._

She grins at him. “Well, I guess that means I need you to teach me how, huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “I guess you can practice on the way.” _As long as she’s not using that damned assault rifle, I’ll be happy._

* * *

“You insert the magazine, like – “

“I’ve used one before, remember? “ She smirks. “I know how to load the damn thing.” They were making their way vaguely northeast, when he decided that it was high time to put her gift through its paces. He sets up tin cans on a few fence posts, and the lesson begins.

He chuckles. “All right then, hot shot. Do your stuff.” He stands back with arms crossed over his chest, and watches passively as she inserts the magazine with a soft _clack_ and chambers a round. She raises it to her shoulder, and he shouts, “No, no! That’ll earn you a nice bruise.”  He slips up behind her, takes the stock, and shoves it painfully into the pocket of her shoulder.  “Wherever you put it, it’s gonna absorb the shock. And if you don’t have it in deep enough, well, history’s gonna repeat itself.”

He looks at her stance. _All wrong._ Before thinking, he grabs either side of her hips and twists them. He then kicks her left foot forward. “Foot points toward your target.” He pops her on both elbows. “Elbows down. Minimize yourself. Don’t give the enemy something to shoot at.” She’s standing straight and tall – he pushes her forward a little bit. “Lean a bit forward and bend your knees a little, or it’ll kick you back on your ass.”

“This is uncomfortable,” she whines.

“Good marksmanship starts with a good foundation.” He can feel the heat of her through her clothes when he touches her, and – _down, boy._ He snatches his hands back and clenches them, crossing his arms again. He takes a few steps back and admires her. He could never resist the allure of a woman with a gun. _Maybe he can find a nice quiet spot, bend her over, and –_ BOOM! The roar of the shotgun startles him, the can flipping off into the weeds.

“It kicks like a mule.” She says, readjusting her stance.

“You’ll get used to it. I’d tell you to hip-fire it, but I don’t want to have to catch you.”

She laughs. “I do like it, though. Both of us shooting the same thing. Makes me feel like we’re a team.” 

He smirks, then gestures toward the fence. “You gonna talk them cans off the fence, or shoot ‘em?”


	14. The Test

If there’s one thing she learns quickly, he thinks, it’s firearms.  It didn’t take long for them to work their way through the ferals and find the poster of the memorial. She performed splendidly – and he didn’t have to worry about catching a 5.56 in the back. He smirks around his cigarette. _That's my girl_.

He’s finding that it’s harder in Underworld to hide what they are. The residents are already curious, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from making a possessive gesture towards her to inspire jealousy in those who ignored his misery for so long. She told him to be careful, to not be affectionate – but she didn’t phrase it as an order, so…

He knows the consequences, however. Traders will refuse to trade with them, no matter how many caps they shove at them. Innkeepers will turn them away. A town once amenable to their presence will turn on them in half a heartbeat. He stood in that bar for the better part of a decade listening to stories like these. Although human-ghoul romantic relationships are rare, the reaction to them is generally hostile – especially when the human is female.

They will deal with that when the time comes. It is not a matter of if, but of when. They cannot hide their relationship forever.

* * *

 It’s dim, the wee hours of the morning. Carol’s is silent, the bed soft and warm.

She feels the reassuring weight of his arm around her, pressing her to him; his breath in her hair. She savors these moments – the calm before the storm. “You awake?” he whispers.

“Mmhmm,” she replies. He nibbles her earlobe as his free hand roams her body. Before she can stop herself, she gasps and arches her back, pressing into him, his hard length digging into her. He grunts, presses back. “Quiet,” she whispers to him, a thread of panic in her voice.  _Not here! No one can know!_

 “Shh…” he presses her lower back, tilting her hips forward, lifts her leg, and gently guides himself into her. She has to stifle a moan that is desperate to fight its way past her lips. He thrusts slowly and she follows the gentle motion of his hips, bringing him deeper into her. The only sounds are the soft rustle of the bedsheets and their panting exhalations.

His hand quests between her legs, parting her; he bites his lip to suppress a quiet whimper. He strokes gently, careful not to overstimulate her. When her hands grasp the bedsheets, he thrusts faster, caressing her inside and out. And then she gasps loudly, a shuddering breath escapes her lips as waves of pleasure overcome her, the inside of her pulsing, squeezing him so tight, drawing him into ecstasy along with her.

* * *

_“Run,” he pleads. They look at him in confusion and fear, freezing like stalked prey animals. “Run. Please.”_

_They scatter. He fights the order as long as he can, but it hurts. It hurts so much…_

_A shotgun blast pierces the serene day, and the woman collapses face-down in the dirt. He tries to fight, tries, but it’s not enough. Another blast, and the man drops, his last act was to shield his little girl. She stands frozen in shock and looks up at him, trembling with fear, greasy brown hair hanging limply, dirt sticking to her cheeks, clean rivulets where tears of pure terror had recently passed._

_He pauses, fights it. The pain, the pain…_

_“I’m sorry.” She gasps, and he pulls the trigger. She falls face-down at his feet. Order fulfilled, he stands, a feeling of gratification swimming in his head, and sickness in his gut. He drops to his knees, grasps the girl’s shoulder. He’s compelled to look at her face, to look at the unspeakable thing he has done._

_He turns her over slowly, her thin, limp little body weighing next to nothing. A gaping red hole mars her chest. But her face…her face! It’s not the little girl’s, it’s, it’s…._

_“Liv!” he screams, picks her up, clutches her tightly to his chest._

_“NO!”_

* * *

He flails about, sending pillows to the floor, tangling himself in the sheets. He slowly comes to the realization that they’re at Carol’s.  Liv is standing in the corner of the room wringing her hands, a worried expression on her face. He’d never woken up this way before – his dreams are becoming more vivid, more terrifying. He’s dreamed about the past before, but this cruel creation is something his imagination’s cooked up on its own.

He supposes it’s a miracle that he has an imagination at all. Although now it seems more of a curse than a gift. “Are you okay?” she asks, with a soft frown. “I didn’t know how to wake you.” He lunges toward her and she shrieks in surprise. He examines her face, her abdomen. He kisses her forehead, in silent thanks.

“Thank God, thank God!”

Shocked, she grasps his hands firmly. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“A dream…just a dream.”

She smiles. “Well, I know that, silly! What’s the dream about?”

“You.”

“Okay…” she hates this. Sometimes, when he doesn’t want to tell her something for whatever reason, he chooses to take her literally and draws his answers out as long as possible. “Come on. Spit it out.”

“You…died. You were shot, and I held you, and…”

“Shh…” she rubs his back, steers him back towards the bed. To her surprise, when she crawls in and sits with her back against the headboard, he lays his head in her lap and grasps her leg. She runs her fingers through his sparse hair. “I love you,” she whispers, and he shivers, grasping her leg tighter.  

 _I suppose it’s come full circle_ , she thinks, gazing at him fondly. She rests her head against the headboard, closes her eyes, and is lulled back to sleep by the warmth of his head on her lap, and his soft, even breaths.

* * *

“Can we go now?” he’s irritated; tired of being so close to where he suffered for so long.

“No. Be nice.” She heads to the Chop Shop. “Come on. I wanna get you looked at.”

“I’m fine,” he says, even as he’s following her.

“Now that’s a load of shit if I ever heard one.” His eyes narrow. “Look, I don’t want to have to order you to do these tests, but I will if necessary.” People are starting to stare at them. “Right now, it’s just me, Liv.” She whispers, so that only they can hear, “I care about you.”

His heart softens. “Female voodoo,” he grumbles as he pushes the door open impatiently. He strides up to Barrows, who backs away from him fast. “Let’s get these tests over with.” He scowls as the doctor points to a nearby chair. Liv sits patiently on a gurney next to him, swinging her legs childishly.

She’d spoken to Barrows earlier about the tests she’d wanted done. She feels shitty about going behind Charon’s back, but it’s the only way this can get done without a nasty scene between them. Blood would have to be taken, and several different kinds of scans – mostly of his head. The nightmares provide a perfect cover.

She can’t help her curiosity. Maybe it’s because she grew up with her dad, hanging around the clinic – she doesn’t like to leave a question unanswered. From her surreptitious research into behavioral conditioning, she found that you can’t just brainwash someone and that’s that. The conditioning has to be reinforced time and time again to keep it fresh. No, there was something else going on here.

In addition to Barrows’ tests, she’d devised one of her own. It was a behavioral test – but one she couldn’t perform here. It had the potential to make too much noise.  She’d gone over the test with Barrows, and he agreed that it could give them some valuable insights, not only into the nature of Charon’s slavery, but the true content of his character.

She can’t help it. She can’t get that little girl out of her mind.

* * *

“The data is gonna take a while to analyze.” Barrows says. “Maybe you might want to go over to the Lincoln Memorial while I work.” That was his suggestion for the site of the behavioral test. At least the small room beneath the memorial wouldn’t echo for ten straight blocks, like a yell would have in the Metro.

They were halfway to the memorial when Charon stops short. “He gave me a psych test.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Barrows. He gave me a psych test.” He frowns, “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No – I just wanted to be thorough. Come on.” She starts walking again, waving for him to come along with her.

He looks unconvinced. “You don’t think I’d…hurt you? Do you?”

“No.” To be truthful, it had crossed her mind, although she refused to give it serious consideration. He’d had her in many _compromising positions_ over the past few weeks – she figures that if he was going to kill her or hurt her, he’d already had ample opportunity to do so. She decided it best that she play down her concerns for now. It’d only hurt his feelings to know that she’d been frightened of him, even for just a split second.

“Come on,” she says. “I’ve got something to show you.”

* * *

They enter the room underneath the Memorial. Olivia locks and latches the door, which doesn’t escape Charon’s attention. He knew that something was up, as soon as Barrows suggested this place. The last he heard, it was full of super mutants – although he didn’t really catch any news about it if there was any. Half the time he tended to tune out the radio chatter to where it became just another part of the background noise of his existence.

“I thought this place was full of super mutants.”

“Oh no, they cleared out a while back. Slavers had it last,” she chirps.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep! Me and Cross came out here to check the place out, and they started shooting at us. Turns out, they were slavers wanting to destroy the memorial. To…destroy hope for any slave that dreamed of freedom.” Just thinking about it made her feel sick.

“Cross? Who’s that?” A note of jealousy creeps into his voice.

“Brotherhood – and female. Cool your jets.” He relaxes, obediently.

“Why are we here?” he asks. He’s getting tired of this little game. He doesn’t know what her and Barrows have going on behind the scenes, he just knows that he’s annoyed by being treated like a lab rat.

“For this.” She pulls her combat knife out of a sheath strapped to her leg. She flips it, and hands it to him, hilt-first. He takes it warily. _No better time than the present,_ she thinks. She holds her arm out to him, palm-up. “Cut me.”

He gasps. “No.” His arm trembles toward her, knife at the ready.

“It won’t kill me. Cut from here” she points at a spot near her elbow, “to here.” She points at a spot almost three inches from where she first touched. “That’s an order.”

“No!” he shouts. “NO!” his hand opens with a violent burst of energy, and the knife clatters to the floor. His hand aches to grab it, to fulfill the order. He craves the release. His vision blackens at the edges as he fights for control of his own body. The pain in his head intensifies, and he struggles to manage it. Suddenly, he scrabbles on the floor, snatches the knife. He steps toward her slowly, deliberately, holding his head in his other hand. _Make it stop, make it stop!_ She can hear his breathing. It’s loud and fast, like he’s in –

A thunderous scream erupts from deep inside him, and he drops to his knees, hands pressed to his head. Before she can react, it’s cut off abruptly, and he’s lying on the floor, silent. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” _I didn’t think that it hurt literally!_ She runs to him, kneels. “Order, uh…canceled! Oh, Charon, wake up!” She shakes his shoulder, presses a palm to his forehead. _Jesus, how much pain does it take to make someone pass out like that?!_

“Ugh, my fuckin’ head,” he groans. His eyelids flutter.

“Are you okay?”

Although relieved that he didn’t hurt her, he can’t keep the anger out of his voice. “I am now. Why the fuck did you do that? Did Barrows put you up to this?”

“No. It’s a…behavioral test. Ever since I heard about that little girl, I had to know. If you could resist.” She smiles weakly. “Now I know you can’t. I’m sorry.”

“So, what you’re saying is – you didn’t trust me.” _I’ve wounded him again._

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Now lie still.” She turns and digs in her pack, producing a bottle of irradiated water. “Down the hatch.” She lifts his head and pours some carefully into his waiting mouth. He hums contentedly as the warmth spreads, making its way to his aching head. She kisses his forehead. “When you’re ready, we’ll go back. Doc should have the results of the tests by now.”


	15. The Lie

“Do you want to listen to your results?” she asks, as they head back towards Underworld.

“It doesn’t matter all that much to me.” He says. He’s been somewhat cold and wooden since he recovered from his blackout at the memorial. “It’s your choice what you want to do about them, if anything can be done. Not mine.” The practicality that he applies to his situation awes her sometimes – that he can just accept things so easily. Then again, he’s had to deal with this reality for almost two hundred years. Maybe he was angry in the beginning, but slowly came to the realization that being angry about it served no purpose.

“I guess Doc can help us decide,” she says. He grunts and shrugs.

* * *

As soon as they approach the Chop Shop, Barrows runs toward them. “Olivia, I must speak with you.” He looks up at Charon. “Alone.”

She sighs. “Are you okay with that?” she asks Charon. He shrugs. “All right then. Go hang out and have a cigarette with Willow. When we’re through, I’ll come get you.” He nods and heads out the door, without complaint.

Once inside the clinic, Doc asks her what happened at the memorial. She recounts the whole episode, with as many details as she can remember. “Makes sense.” Barrows points at a still of a scan of Charon’s head on a monitor in the corner. “See this?”

“My God…they’re everywhere.” Little points of light are spread everywhere in his brain, like stars in the night sky.

“And this is just one cross-section, Olivia. God only knows how many are in there.” He fidgets. “I took a scan lower, too. It appears that they’re all over his central nervous system, not just his brain.”

“What are they – nanotech?” She knows a little about it – there were pilot programs before the war where scientists were using nanotechnology, tiny robots, to treat diseases. Genetic, mostly – hemophilia was the only notable example that she remembered to be somewhat successful, as well as some digestive disorders.

“Unfortunately, no.” he turns to her. “I think they’re bio-engineered. “

“That means…” she trails off.

“They’re alive.” He finishes.

“There’s gotta be a way to get ‘em out.”

“I don’t have anything close to the expertise to _examine_ these, much less attempt to remove them. I don't even know what they are.” He sighs. “Look, you may want to sit down.”

“No. Whatever it is, Doc, just say it.”

“It will likely be impossible at this point to separate them.” He taps the keys, zooming in close to one of the bright spots. “As you can see, they may be brighter than the surrounding tissue, but the edges are…fuzzy. They’ve integrated, Olivia. “ He hesitates for a few seconds, then continues. “I’m fairly certain that…you cannot remove or kill them without killing him in the process.”

Her mouth falls open in shock. “Doc, how do I tell him this?” She wants to cry. All her hopes of freeing him, dashed – by one scan.

“He doesn’t have to know. You said that you came here under the guise of curing his nightmares.” He shifts his weight. “Look, I’m not used to talking about confidential medical information with anyone but the patient, but Charon’s case is…unique.”

‘What are you saying?”

He decides to be blunt. “If I were you, I wouldn’t tell him. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

She blinks, dumbfounded. “But that’s – “

“Wrong. Yes. It’s lying. But he didn’t know before, did he? Nothing’s changed, and nothing can.”

She sighs and rubs her temples. “What about the nightmares?”

“Pretty standard for Post-Traumatic Stress.” She nods. That’s what they’d both expected before the tests were even conducted. “There’s little I can offer in the way of therapy.” She’d been warned about this possibility too, so this wasn’t news to her. “You can sedate him, if he gets too bad,” he suggests.

“He’ll refuse.”

“So, order him to take something,” he says.

“Yeah, and strip away the thin veneer of dignity he’s managed to build up over the past month? No thanks,” she says, sarcastically.

“Then give it to him in water or something.”

She gasps. “You’re kidding – you want me to slip him a mickey? He barely trusts me now as it is!”

“Why would trust be an issue? Unless he’s not just a bodyguard.” Her breath catches in her throat. _Great. Just what we need – someone else knowing._ “I’m not stupid, Olivia. The tension between you two is obvious.” He turns, fingers flying on the keyboard of the nearby terminal. After a few seconds, he ejects a holotape and hands it to her. “It’s all on here, if you want to look at it, or decide to show it to him.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, be careful.” He meets her eyes, and rests his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll advise you now to end your relationship with him. It will not end well.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your advice, huh?” she snaps, jerking her shoulder back, turning on her heel and slamming the door on her way out.

* * *

He watches her storm out of the museum, slamming the door behind her. _Uh oh. Must not be good news._ He observes passively she lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, and seems to calm. Then her face contorts with rage. “Mother FUCKER!” she screams into the sky, catching the attention of even the Brotherhood guards.

His programming kicks in, and he runs to her. “Is there something I can do?”

“No.” She sniffs. “You’re not still angry at me?”

He’s had some time to think about it; to cool off. “No.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that it would hurt, physically.”

“Well, what did you think I meant when I said it hurt?” he smirks.

“I don’t know.” She scuffs her boot on the uneven stones. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”

They stand, staring across the Mall. “I’ve never known pain that bad.” His admission sears her heart. It puzzles her when he takes a long drag on his cigarette and smiles proudly. “I never passed out from it before.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “That’s the weirdest personal best ever, don’t you think?”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

They’re silent for a few moments. “Do you want to know the test results?” she asks.

He’d thought about that, too. “Yes. I would.”

“The nightmares are Post-traumatic Stress. Like I thought before,” she says.

“And?”

“He can’t offer any treatment, aside from…sedation. I’m sorry.”

“Stop sayin’ you’re sorry.” He sighs. “Anything else?”

Her gut twists. “No.”

“Good. Let’s head out, then. I’m gettin’ tired of these assholes.” He tosses the remainder of his cigarette to the stones, and grinds the butt under the heel of one massive boot. For once, she can’t argue with him – she can’t wait to get away from here, to put some distance in between her and this monstrous lie.

“Run into Carol’s and get the packs, then. We’ll head out right away.” Leaving this late means sleeping in the Metro, but she doesn’t really care. The sooner they leave, the sooner she can leave this behind her.

 

 


	16. The Truth

He shoots surely, confidently into the twitching body of the radscorpion. She still admires his skill – he moves like he was born with that shotgun in his hands, like it’s an extension of his arm. “So that’s the Temple of the Union.” He says, looking off into the distance. “Not what I expected.”

“Why? What did you expect?” she asks.

“Something more…impressive.”

“It does leave a bit to be desired.” She shoulders her pack. “But hey – at least we can sit and rest tonight.” He nods. It’d be nice to not have to post watch to sleep. Both of them were a bit tired, and beginning to get irritable.

They’re allowed in without a fuss - although Charon's presence elicits a great deal of staring and whispering among the inhabitants. A dark man with a beard embraces her heartily. “Welcome back, sister!” he exclaims, smiling broadly. “Have you brought us good news?”

“The memorial’s been cleared out. Slavers were using it as a base.” His surprised face is almost comical.

“Then we can move in?” he asks, excitedly.

“Any time you want.” She says, immediately regretting it.

“Great! Come on, everyone! The memorial is safe – we can go!” he shouts.

“Whoa – at least wait until I give Caleb the picture!”

* * *

Charon grumbles the whole way back to the memorial. He didn’t think that he could get more tired and pissed off than he was before, but he is. It annoys him to have to sleep near these people. What if he has a nightmare? They might panic and shoot him.

Even worse, they might _know._ Liv knows, but she sleeps beside him every night…or she does,  when they’re alone. He doesn’t need others to know, for word of his shame – no, his _weakness_ – to spread. Rumors might get around. It’d ruin his reputation; temper the fear that he inspired. It would make her less safe.

So, he sleeps little. When he does sleep, he sleeps fitfully. She notices his anxiety. “Charon – we’ve been out for over a week. Would you like to go home?”

_Home,_ he thinks. _Rest._ “Yes. I would.”

She shakes Hannibal’s hand and waves goodbye to all the former slaves – most of them too busy cleaning up and working to acknowledge her gesture. “Let’s beat feet.”

* * *

They can see the glint of Megaton in the distance. “I tell you what – if I were ever free, I’d take you wherever you wanted to go. Sky’s the limit.” He’s taken to flights of fancy more often lately. He can’t help but think of what their relationship would be like without the contract in the middle; the third wheel influencing everything he does.

“Charon, I have to tell you something.” She can’t take it anymore; hiding this secret from him. He has every right to know. Every time he talks about freedom, her heart twists painfully. She stops, and he turns to face her. She takes a deep breath. “You won’t ever be free. You can’t.” She tells him of the scans, of the bright spots in his head. Her face is a mask of sadness, of regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I DON’T WANT YOUR PITY!” he screams at her. He can’t stand the look on her face. The same look everyone gave him when they found out that he was a slave, bound to that godforsaken contract. “Not you. Not you, too.” It’s worse from her; indescribably worse.

“Charon, I’m sorry, I –“ she reaches out to him.

He pulls away, the old patterns reasserting themselves, painful yet comfortable. “Don’t you touch me. Just…don’t.” Of course, she could touch him if she wanted to, he’s aware of that. But he knows she won’t.

She gasps and pulls her hand back, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to – “

“What? Treat me like a piece of property? Like I don’t have a right to know what’s going on in my own fuckin’ BODY?!” He shakes his head. The news had killed what little hope of freedom he still held deep in his heart. He grieves the loss. He feels his future stretched out before him – a future of unquestioningly following the orders of others, no matter how abhorrent he found them. A future of killing and death at his hands. A future without hope of ever making a choice without the approval of another. It is painful and…scary. He is terrified, and he is angry at her for making him feel this way. He knows it’s not her fault, but he can’t help it. He lashes out at her in his vulnerability.

“I thought it would hurt you,” she says. “I didn’t tell you, because I love you.”

“I told you before. Love can’t fix me, Liv. Nothing can.” He says, bitterly. She can feel him pulling away subtly; she can feel the gulf between them widening, and she can do nothing to stop it. “Let’s fuckin’ go home.” He turns from her and trudges toward Megaton.

* * *

He tries mightily to clear his mind, to let the programming take over. After all – that is his future now. All hope of ever having anything close to freedom has been utterly destroyed. Unable to force the thoughts away, he grasps at his mantra, the phrases that have kept him sane for almost two centuries.

_I am a stone._

_Cold, hard, silent._

_Stones do not feel. Stones do not think. Stones do not question._

It focuses his mind, allows him to push away the pain, to think only of his employer’s needs. He becomes alert, head on a swivel, watching for the usual suspects in this area: raiders, mole rats, and wild dogs. She shuffles behind him, sniffling. _It’s always “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”,_ he thinks, mind wandering. Why had he ever dared hope to achieve freedom?

_Hope is a dangerous thing_ , he thinks, as they approach the gate. She waves at Stockholm, and the gate opens, screeching familiarly. _Why did I even dare hope?_ He shakes his head. He can sense her glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. He forces himself to stare straight ahead, impassively.

They enter the house. Once the door is closed and locked and their packs situated, she confronts him. “Please stop detaching. I’m tired of it,” she says, snatching a beer out of the fridge. She holds it up. “Would you like one?” He shakes his head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, sit down. Get out of that corner; you’re not in that fucking bar.” He sits on the couch, back straight, knees together, hands in his lap. “Look,” she says. “I didn’t mean to keep this from you. I just…I just knew what freedom means for you, and it hurt me to tell you.”

“You lied to me. You don’t trust me.”

Tears spring into her eyes, and she wipes them away on her sleeve. “If you want to come to bed, you know where it is.” He notices that she’s looking away, refusing to acknowledge his comment. It’s an admission in itself; a damning one. “Good night.” She leans in to kiss his cheek, and he pulls away. “I love you.” He smiles faintly as she ascends the stairs, listens to the sounds of her getting undressed and climbing into the bed that they’ve shared for weeks. He aches to join her. With the loss of his hope, she’s all he has left. But isolation is just as comfortable.

He spends the night downstairs, stewing in fear until he finally drifts to sleep from pure exhaustion.

 


	17. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter - but there's a nice long one coming up on Friday. Stay tuned!

He’s been cold and distant since she told him about his results. She’s tired of this. It’s always a rollercoaster of apologies and misunderstandings, lies and half-truths. _I guess that’s the way it is with broken people,_ she thinks. He busies himself with his shotgun at the workbench while she sketches Wadsworth and crunches on some Sugar Bombs thoughtfully.“You know…it seems like I just wander aimlessly. I don’t know where I’m going, or what I’m really doing.”

“None of us do,” he grumbles.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really.”

“Even the people who look like they have it all figured out?”

He grunts. “They’re the most clueless of ‘em all.”

She taps her foot on the floor. “Maybe we should leave the Capital. Go somewhere else.”

“If you leave, your problems just follow you.” He pauses. “Trust me.” He thinks about his head, and whatever’s in there. That stupid experiment that he’d been selected for so long ago that changed his life forever. “Why can’t you just be happy where we are?” It comes out bluntly, almost angrily. He regrets saying it until she speaks again.

“I dunno. It’s just that…I spent nineteen years cooped up, living in that vault. I get…antsy.”

Having spent over a decade standing in the corner of a grimy bar, he can relate. “We can run out and hunt or scav if it makes you feel any better.” There’s nothing to raise his spirits and take his mind off his problems like killing something.

 _Crunch, crunch. Scribble._ “Maybe.”

“I’ll prepare your pack, just in case.”

* * *

They’re sitting on the couch, eating quietly. “I thought of something else,” she says.

“Okay…”

She fidgets. “We could go to Rivet City. “

“NO.”

“Oh, you’re not still jealous of Butch, are you?” He scowls into his bowl of noodles. “Well, we don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.” She hesitates, and then decides to throw it out there. “There’s a doctor there that –“

“NO.”

 “Will you let me finish? Pinkerton is in the broken-off bow of the ship. We can just hop in the water, and swim right in,” she says, cheerily.

“Yeah – if I didn’t sink like a rock.”

“Oh. Uh…I suppose we could open up the outer door. That would save us some time, and keep us from having to dodge his booby traps.”

He groans. “You were gonna take us through traps? Ugh. I’ve still got my work cut out for me.”

“Heh. Sorry. Still, he could take a look at your scans; he might be able to tell us more.” He sits quietly, staring woodenly at the wall. She can’t read his face.

“I will go, if you want me to. I do not see any difference it could make.” He wants to avoid this. It hurts too much. It reminds him that he succumbed to hope. _Hope is my weakness,_ he thinks. _Not nightmares._ He doesn’t want to be himself anymore – the broken thing that finds gentle touch unbearable. _But it’s all I know how to be._ He wants to retreat into his own head, let the programming take over, make the pain go away.

But she will not let him. She has not given up hope.

Not yet.


	18. Pinkerton

“Come on, Pinkerton, just take a look at them,” she pleads. “If not for me, then…you might find it interesting.”

The old man sighs and takes the holotape from her. “My name is DOCTOR Pinkerton, and this better be worth interrupting my research for. I will be very displeased if you waste my time on trifles when I have important work to do.” He strides up to a computer terminal and loads the holotape. “At least this time you didn’t disarm all my tra-“ he gasps. “Fascinating!”

“So you’re not going to kick us out?” she asks.

“No, no, dear girl.” He studies a few stills of the scans. “Biotech. Very interesting.” He walks up to Charon, looking at his head as if he could see them with the naked eye. “…and they’re spread throughout his central nervous system?”

She shrugs. “Well, we only took scans of his head and neck, but it looks to be that way.”

“Fascinating…” he reaches toward Charon’s head.

His hand is snatched in mid-air. “Get yer dirty mitts off me.”

Olivia smirks. “Yeah – if you want to touch him, you might want to ask him first.”

Charon releases the doctor’s hand, and Pinkerton rubs it absentmindedly. “He’s very strong. Fascinating.”

Charon sneers at him. “You can talk to me. I’m not a goddamn lab rat.”

“I’ll speak to you if there’s anything I think you could answer,” says the doctor, rudely. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “What are your…symptoms?”

“Compulsion. Relief when following an order. Physical pain when I fight it.”

“And you are…Pre-war?” the doctor asks.

“Yep.”

Pinkerton taps his lips. “Hmm…it’s very likely you’ve been bio-conditioned.”

“What’s that?” Olivia asks.

Pinkerton smiles at the opportunity to impart knowledge – and display his genius. “As part of the war effort about two hundred years ago, military scientists bioengineered tiny organisms to perform different functions within a host body. They live within the host, similar to a parasite, although they’re engineered with the host’s DNA to inhibit rejection.” He begins to pace back and forth. “To brainwash someone, you need to condition them, not only initially, but periodically. Bioconditioning eliminates the need for that requirement – once the initial conditioning regimen has been applied, they integrate themselves into the brain. They stimulate pleasure centers when a command is obeyed, and stimulate pain centers when it is…fought.” He tilts his head in thought. “The pain could even be so severe that the subject may be rendered unconscious.”

“Say it ain’t so.” Charon says, sarcastically.

He taps the side of his head. "They 'enhance' the brain, if you will." He picks up a heavy metal bolt sitting on his workbench. "Also -" without warning, he hurls it at Charon, who catches it just inches from his face before Olivia could even react "- it enhances strength and reflexes. The organisms allow central nervous system cells to communicate more effectively, process sensory information faster, speeding up reaction time to an...astonishing degree." 

Olivia hopes against hope. "Have you seen anyone else like this?"

Pinkerton shakes his head sadly. "Unfortunately not. I've only read about the technology in old documents and holotapes. I'm assuming that the majority of subjects - mostly soldiers - died during or shortly after the war. A living subject is truly fascinating, ghoulification aside." Charon grunts.

“So,” Olivia asks, “can they be removed?”

“Oh, of course.” She smiles broadly. “It will be difficult, however. I’ll need a tissue sample to study them further. Preferably from the brain.”

“Wait – what?” Charon’s startled.  “The brain? Won’t I have brain damage?”

“Of course. Most likely severe. Doctor Barrows – although a lesser mind than myself – was very correct in that they are integrated into the tissue.” He coldly ignores Charon while addressing her. “They are part of him now.”

She’s starting to get angry at the doctor’s tone. “So, there’s no way to get ‘em out without making him a drooling idiot?”

“Well, most likely, taking them out would kill him.” Charon frowns and shifts uncomfortably.

“That’s not an option,” Olivia snarls.

“A pity.” The doctor ejects the holotape and hands it back to her, indifferently. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He walks away, returning to his lab.  “Lock the door on your way out, would you? The last thing I need is more interruptions.”

* * *

They’re standing by the water’s edge, smoking. Tears stain her cheeks – the last remnants of hope, not only gone, but in tatters. Moved by her tears, he rests a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “It’s not your fault. You did what you could.”

She sniffs. “I thought I could free you. I failed.”

“The deck was stacked from the beginning. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“I just – “ she stops, thinks better of it.

“You just what?” he asks, curious.

“I just…want you to be with me because you want to be, not because you have to be.” She wants to sob, to wail, to let all her frustration out, but it’s not safe here. “I couldn’t save Dad, and I can’t save you, either.”

He blinks, dumbfounded. Of course he couldn’t leave her, even if he wanted to – the contract prevents that. 

She thinks of how he’d shrunk away from her for the past few days. He’d become cold and wooden, allowing the conditioning to take over. He’d slept away from her, careful to avoid even casual touch during waking hours. “If you want to leave, then I’ll let you go, wherever you want to go. Just say it.” More tears roll down her cheeks, down her neck and disappear into the collar of her shirt. “I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to be here.”

His mind is uncharacteristically blank. He doesn’t know what to say. She turns to him, her eyes puffy and red, cheeks wet. Her eyes are brimming with tears, pleading with him wordlessly. He opens his mouth hesitantly. “I think…we need a good night’s rest.” She smiles at him weakly. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

* * *

He lays his sleeping bag at the foot of the bed. After a drink, she curls up on the bed and falls asleep, despite the lights being on. He crouches next to the bed and studies her placid face. Could he have been wrong? Did he see pity in her compassion – pity that was not there?

For the past few days, it had crossed his mind to ask leave of her. He knew that she would likely grant his request. It had been uncomfortable for both of them. He’d made no effort to return her gestures – her “I love yous” were answered with only a grunt, or a cursory nod. The last time he’d touched her – before he’d rested his hand on her shoulder earlier – was on the way back from the memorial, before their confrontation.

She had lied to him. She had said no – that there was nothing else about his results. She must have known that it would hurt him, if he found out about it. That it could possibly be damaging to their relationship. So, why did she do it? Why take that risk, if he was so important to her?

There was only one thing he could think of: she wanted to protect him. She didn’t want him to worry needlessly. He reaches over to her hesitantly, and gently tucks her hair behind her ear. She smiles softly at the touch. “Mmm…”

He rises and turns reluctantly, clicks off the light, then lays on top of his sleeping bag. He stares up at the ceiling, listening to her even breathing. Thoughts rise unbidden to the surface of his mind. He can’t sleep, and he can’t figure out why.  

That’s a lie. He does know. He craves her touch – and it’s driving him mad to be so close. He rises, and then crawls onto the bed next to her. After some hesitation he settles next to her, wraps his arm around her and pulls her close, basking in her warmth. “Was wonderin’ when you’d come to bed,” she slurs, sleepily. He squeezes her tightly and nuzzles into her hair, taking a deep breath, inhaling her scent. She giggles and squirms. “Ya don’ have to squeeze me so tight, babe – I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He loosens his arm and relaxes next to her, falling into a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

“I want to stay.” The morning started out a bit awkward; she was pleasantly surprised to find him cuddling with her when she woke up, but she still wasn’t ready for his sudden change of heart.

“Is that really what you want?” she asks. Even though she doesn’t entirely understand it, she knows how strong the conditioning is – that he would possibly do or say anything to stay near her so that he can protect her.

“Yes.” He feels vulnerable, uncomfortable. “Not because of the contract, but because…I love you.”

She smiles and takes his hand. “I love you too. Let’s go home.”

 

 


	19. Worst Nightmare

When they return to the little Megaton house, Olivia reaches to unlock the door, and the door itself swings open. A pile of metal machine parts lies just inside the doorway. She gasps and rushes to it. “Wadsworth!”

A tinny voice arises from the mess on the floor. “I t-tried _bzzzzzzzt_ my best to s-s-s-stop them ma’am. I’m afr- _clickclickclick-_ aid they may have-have-have found your s-afe _clickclick_.” _Oh no. Jesus, no!_

She runs to the kitchen only to find the secret compartment open, her safe cleaned out. She falls to her knees and begins to sob. Charon is at her side in an instant, heart in his throat. _Their worst nightmare, realized._ He begins to prepare himself for the worst.

“Lookin’ for this?” The voice sends a lightning bolt of terror through her heart. Jericho stands at the open doorway waving a piece of paper. It could only be…

He points at Charon. “You’re comin’ with me, bud. My new best friend.” Olivia scrabbles across the floor frantically and locks her arms around his leg.

She looks up at him, eyes pleading. “Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me!” _Don’t leave me like everyone else! You’re all I have left!_

“Aww, look at this. How touching.” Jericho sneers, cruelly. “Come on, bruiser – let’s blow this pop stand.”

Charon looks down at her, with effort. His vision is already swimming, the blackness closing in. “I’m…sorry.” He shakes his leg, and she releases him with little fight.

“I’ll come for you. I promise.”

* * *

It took her a whole day and half a carton of Mentats to put Wadsworth back together.  As soon as she had him in serviceable condition, she interrogated him mercilessly. “So – it was Jericho.”

“Yes, ma’am – and some of those raider ruffians he associates with. One was quite the lockpick.” His arms clicked in places as they moved, and jerked back and forth erratically, the robot version of a nervous tic. _I’ll have to have Moira put him back together right, if I survive this._

“Yeah, I gathered,” she replies sarcastically.

“I apologize, ma’am. I tried my very best to deter them.” _If there’s one thing going for robots, they’re awfully brave, their only purpose being to serve, not thinking of their own welfare._ Olivia is sure that even Charon can appreciate that. Hopefully, she’ll get the chance to tell him.

She smiles mournfully. “I’m sure you did.”

“They hit me awfully hard. But I still managed to find out where they were going.” Her heart skips a beat. Maybe this will be an easy fix, no harder than slipping on a Stealth Boy and swiping the contract. It’s cold-blooded, but they did worse to her.

“Where?!”

Wadsworth jerks from side to side. “Why, Evergreen Mills, ma’am. Jericho desires to reprise his role as a raider – as a leader this time.”

Her blood runs cold. “I can’t take on Evergreen Mills all on my own!”

“No, ma’am – I’d advise against it.” He pauses, then jerks, nearly bashing into the wall. “Is it possible to bring a partner to aid you in your endeavor?”

“Maybe…” She taps her chin with the tip of an index finger. “I know! I’ll go get Paladin Cross!”

Wadsworth’s trademark hearty laugh erupts from his speakers. “Ah, yes, a splendid idea! Make sure to hop in your own suit of power armor, too, ma’am. Those raiders are a pesky bunch!”

* * *

She waits at the gate to the Citadel. It took longer than she anticipated getting here, and she’s still not sure if she can convince Cross to come with her. She’s well aware of the Brotherhood stance on ghouls, and she’s prepared to cash in every favor her father may have left with this formidable woman.

Her stomach flips as she thinks about the horrid things that Jericho and his raider buddies probably have Charon doing right now. He is a man schooled in violence yet he is capable of such gentleness, tenderness. She closes her eyes and can almost feel his heavy arm wrapped around her possessively, his warm breath in her hair. It makes her sick – just thinking about his past, all those terrible memories, the needless suffering, and now…

The door opens with a clank, and a soldier in bulky power armor escorts her directly to Cross. Olivia thanks her lucky stars that she’s practically a member of Lyon’s Pride and as far as the Brotherhood is concerned, she walks on water. “Nice to see you again, Olivia.” Cross smiles politely. They’d gone their separate ways after the Brotherhood retook the purifier, but had remained friends.

“Cross, I need your help.”

The older woman is surprised, to say the least. “Is there trouble?”

“Yes.” Olivia explains everything, leaving one detail for last. “The friend that was kidnapped…he’s a ghoul.”

The silence lengthens between them. Then, Cross speaks. “If he is this important to you, then I will go.” It is Olivia’s turn to be surprised, and her face shows it plainly. Cross explains. “Your father would have gone to Hell and back for a friend. You are as honorable as he was.”

Olivia smiles. _I love you, Dad._ “I will rescue him, or die trying.”

 

 


	20. Hell on Earth

More blood, more death. For the last three days, he’d been plunged back into his own personal Hell, killing at the behest of a man with no morals. To cope, he’s become little more than a machine. He eats, he sleeps, he does his business – and he kills. Without mercy.

It is small comfort that the men he’s killing are not innocents by any stretch of the imagination. Anyone who had challenged Jericho’s meteoric rise in the raider ranks had met the business end of Charon’s shotgun. He is a weapon again. He is feared, hated.

Oh God, how he misses her.

Both his body and his mind ache for her. He tries to push her out of his mind. He knows that she’ll come for him – she is as good as her word. But she will die here. He will be ordered to kill her no doubt, and there’s nothing he will be able to do to save her from himself.

He stands woodenly, eyes glazed, in a corner of the office that Jericho had commandeered from the last man unlucky enough to oppose him. He has learned to cherish every minute, every _second_ that goes by without the old raider saying something. The man’s cruelty knows no bounds. “So, shuffler – me and my boys had a bet goin’ on.”

He stands silently. There is no order to follow, and he refuses to speak for this repulsive man unless explicitly ordered to.

Jericho continues. “I bet ‘em that the little bitch was jumpin’ your bones.” He’s picking his teeth with a small pocketknife, pausing every so often to wipe it on his pants. “They said no way. Said that you guys only fucked each other, not us.”

 _Please, not this,_ he thinks. _Don’t mock her; don’t mock the thing I hold closest to my heart._

“So, which is it? Was she screwin’ ya?”

He must answer. He’s compelled to. Jericho watches him fight the order with obvious glee. “Yes.” The raider claps his hands together excitedly.

“Looks like I’m a bit richer today.” He smiles wickedly, lifts an eyebrow. “Did she order you to do it?” Charon shakes his head slowly. “You old dog. Don’t blame ya for dippin’ your wick. That’s one fine piece of ass.”

Charon closes his eyes and pictures her face on that night. The night where he’d succumbed to his desires and found himself inside of her. He could almost feel her firm legs around his waist. In his mind’s ear he heard her voice, beckoning to him: _“Charon…I need you.”_ These memories hold him fast, keep him sane. Try as he might to resist, he has again become the victim of hope. _Hope is a dangerous thing._

 _I would do anything to see her again. To touch her again. To_ –

“You know, shuffler – that bitch turned me down. Told me to get lost.” He shakes his head back and forth in disgust. “Won’t have anything to do with a flesh-and-blood man, but’ll fuck a walkin’ corpse. What a world we live in.” Charon smirks, not caring if Jericho sees him. Liv is his woman. _No_ , he remembers. _She was_.

“So, what was her favorite position? I took her for a missionary girl myself, vanilla as they come.” To be honest, he couldn’t answer – she hadn’t told him her favorite. Spontaneity ruled when it came to their lovemaking; they just did what came naturally in the moment.

“I do not know.”

“Ah – she never told you.” He picks between his teeth again with the knife. “Women – so fickle. Even they don’t know what they like.” He wipes the knife on the leg of his trousers, then points it in Charon's direction. “I bet I know what you like best, though. Get her up on top of ya, grindin’ all nice and slow. A body like that, I bet she can ride a dick like a champ.”

Hearing no question, Charon stays silent. _I will kill you, you cruel, heartless fuck. I swear on my mother’s grave, I will watch you bleed…_

“Well, can she?” Jericho sneers, thoroughly enjoying this torture. Although he was already corrupted from the get-go, absolute power over another had affected him the same way it does most men.

As Charon was about to answer, a deafening boom outside interrupts him. _That’s the generator blowing. That could only mean…she’s here._ The behemoth roars, and dull pops follow – the telltale sound of the 9mm pistols normally carried by the tougher, higher-ranking raiders. Interspersed with these, he could hear screams and the loud roar of…a combat shotgun.

Jericho runs to the railing beyond the door, looking below into the center of the cavernous building.

Charon smiles. _She is here._

She has come for him.


	21. The Reckoning

She kicks the door open with her foot, aided by her power armor, a dose of psycho, and pure unadulterated rage. Cross stands next to her, calm, ever vigilant. “JERICHO!”  She screams up to the office. “MOTHERFUCKER, I KNOW YOU’RE UP THERE! COME DOWN AND FACE ME!”

He stares down at her, unbelieving. He looks around. He’s surrounded by his lieutenants – tough, scarred men who have survived countless raids, sent hundreds to their graves. They stare at him, urging him wordlessly to answer her. He yells down at her. “YOU’VE FUCKED WITH THE WRONG RAIDER, VAULT GIRL!” He scans the group. “Everyone, with me. YOU – “ he points at Charon, “by my side. We’ll see how girly likes getting her throat ripped out by her precious fuckboy.”

Charon tucks himself in next to Jericho obediently. The metal grate of the stairs clanks dully under their boots as they descend slowly but purposefully. He has dreaded this moment. Although his prayers have been answered – he gets to see her again – it will be the last time. He will be ordered to kill her. After that, he knows that when forced to destroy his last hope for redemption, he will become the monster he fears. The monster that everyone thought him to be.

They square off at the perimeter of the wide expanse in the center of the building. “Now I’ll make this shuffler kill you, rip your fuckin’ throat out.” Jericho says. Her heart pounds, both from the drug and from fear. She’d seen how easy it is for Charon to kill. He is strong and sure. He would kill her no doubt – so she had to keep him from being forced to fight her.

“Really, Jericho? You didn’t even bother to learn his name? That’s cruel, even for you.” She ventures a look into Charon’s eyes. They are uncharacteristically open, displaying a confusing mixture of love, pain, and fear. 

“I don’t need to know his name to order him around, you stupid little cunt.”

“I suppose not.” The silence lengthens between the two parties.

He turns to Charon. “I order you to – “ 

“COWARD!” she screams.

He whirls to face her. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

“I called you a coward, you stupid fuck. You’re afraid of gettin’ beat down by a woman, so you send a slave to do your dirty work for you.” Jericho’s entourage starts glancing at each other, muttering amongst themselves. _Good,_ she thinks. _It had the desired effect._

“No MAN talks to me that way, much less a loudmouthed, corpse-fuckin’ gash.” She glances over at Charon – his face is a mask, concealing pain that only she can see. _That motherfucker grilled him about us. It must have been pure torture for him._ She looks over her shoulder at Cross, whose expression she can’t read. _I know how the Brotherhood feels about ghouls; I can only imagine how they’d feel about…us._

“Tell him to stand down. This is between me and you, asshole.” She’d coached Cross to stand silently near her, not moving unless she was threatened by someone other than Jericho or Charon.

“Gladly.” He turns to Charon. “Stand down. She’s mine.”

They walk towards the center of the room, towards each other. Jericho is taller, broader, and heavier than she – but she has one edge: she has everything to lose. If she does not win, she isn’t going home again. He will undoubtedly kill her. This is all or nothing. Ten feet away, he sneers at her. “I think I’d like to beat you to death, nice and slow. Give lover boy there a nice show.” He looks over his shoulder. “Get me two baseball bats.”

He points at her. “Take off that power armor, sweetheart. It ain’t exactly fair, is it?”

 _Ah, shit._ This is a worst-case scenario. She’d hoped that he’d insist on a duel with pistols or some such nonsense. He has a distinct advantage here. Although he’s significantly older, he’s stronger; his arms are longer…she didn’t plan for this. But she’s desperate. Having challenged him on his home turf, she has no choice but to agree.

She steps to the side and out of the last protection she has left as two bats are thrown in between them. “Ready when you are,” she taunts.

“GO!” they both lunge at the bats. Unfortunately, he reaches his first, and takes a mighty swing at her side, a glancing blow.

“FUCK!” she yells. _Not even direct - that hurt like a mother. This guy’s strong._

Swinging wildly, she manages to hit him on the leg solidly, although not hard enough for it to cripple him – or slow him down any. When she lands the blow, he yells like a maniac, taking another swing, which was easy for her to dodge. _He’s getting pissed off – he didn’t think I’d get one in._

Her agility makes him angrier, and he swings again, again. She taunts him, waiting for an opening. “Too slow!” she laughs. “What’s wrong? You tired?” He swings again, barely missing her head this time. _Whoops, be careful Liv. You might need to use that sometime._

“Too old for me, huh?” she heckles him mercilessly. “Yep, over the hill. Should’ve just hung in the towel!” He growls and swings, missing again. Maybe if she pisses him off, he’ll get careless, and give her an opportunity to end this quickly. Encouraged by his blind rage, she lowers her voice. “Must sting somethin’ awful, that I’d rather fuck a ghoul than fuck you.” He snarls and swings low, catching her lower leg solidly. It cracks sickeningly. Her tormented scream echos off the walls. Panic forces its way into her brain as she crumples to the ground.

Charon fights for control of his emotions. He knew that it could end this way, that it would end this way. He jerks his head at Cross, who is watching the fight intently. _Why isn’t she doing anything?_ Then it occurs to him – just like him, she’s been instructed to stand down, to not interfere. He wills her to move, to defend Liv, but the Paladin stands still, observing silently. _She is a good soldier_ , he thinks. Clenching his teeth, he watches the match in the center of the room. _I don’t need this in my head_. But he can’t tear his eyes away from her, or keep from hearing her tortured screams.

Jericho laughs, tossing his bat from hand to hand. “Busted up your leg mighty good, huh?” he smirks. “You know what’d be nice? A matching pair.” She watches in horror as he lifts his bat up and brings it down on her other leg. The pain is so intense that she can feel blackness at the edges of her vision. Her head bobs from side to side as she fights to stay conscious. “Oh no, don’t fall asleep on me, sweetheart. I want you nice and awake, so you can scream for your lover boy over there.” He swings viciously at her ribs, delighting at her pained shrieks. “I bet you look real good in black and blue.” He laughs.

“You…motherfucker,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.” he leans closer to her. The fog in her brain clears for an instant. _This is my chance._

Her head falls back. “You…motherfucker,” she whispers, quieter.

He leans in closer, confident of his victory. “You know,” he whispers, just loud enough for both of them to hear, “I decided that I won’t kill ya.” Her blood runs cold. “What I’ll do is I’ll have those fellas over there run a train on ya.” He chuckles at the terror in her eyes. “And I’ll force your boyfriend over there to watch.” He’s so close, she can smell his breath – it reeks of stale cigarettes and beer, half-rotten meat. “Then, we’ll –"  _NOW!_ He senses the change in her eyes and jerks away, but too slow – she swings her bat one-handed, connecting firmly with his temple. He drops to the ground with a dull thud, out cold.

“STOP!” Cross shouts, as the crowd of Jericho’s buddies lurch forward, intent on finishing her off. “Don’t take another step.” Her laser rifle is at the ready, pointed at the nearest man’s chest. “He’s ours. Leave now, or die with him.” They exchange glances and holster their weapons, one by one. They file out slowly, Cross’ rifle trained on them the entire time. When they retreat, only Charon is left.

Wasting no time, Liv scrabbles over to Jericho’s lifeless form and starts searching pockets for the contract. Before she knows what’s happening, Charon looms over her, and she jerks back instinctively. He looks at her tenderly and then tears at Jericho’s armor, revealing a tiny pocket under his shoulder plate. He holds the plate open, his eyes urging her to search it.

She pulls at it, and takes away her prize – a piece of worn paper. The most precious thing that she’s ever owned. She falls back, clutches it to her chest and bawls, tears running down her face and dropping in the dust. He draws his shotgun and presses the barrel against Jericho’s chest.

“Wake up,” he says.

“Wake up, you PIECE OF SHIT!” He kicks the unconscious man in the ribs.  Jericho groans, and his eyes flutter open. “I promised myself I’d kill you.” Charon looks at Olivia’s tear-stained face, pale, trembling, wracked with pain – she nods. He turns back to him, staring him straight in the eyes. “Any last words?”

He sneers. “Yeah – go to Hell, you rotten corpse.”

“You first.” The shotgun blast echoes in the empty foundry, the plastic shell clattering on the concrete floor hollowly. He kneels next to her and cradles her in his lap, caressing her face, her hair. It’s almost like a dream. He can’t believe she’s alive, that he’d ever get to hold her in his arms again. “You came for me,” he murmurs.

“I had to.” She smiles through her tears, through the pain. “You’re all I have left.”

* * *

He carries her all the way home. Her legs may never be the same, but that doesn’t matter to him. If she were crippled, he’d carry her to the ends of the Earth without complaint – all she’d have to do is ask.

She is beautiful. She is his.

He sets her gingerly on the couch. He is very careful – the bones in her legs still ache. Sometimes, the medicine in stimpaks takes a while to knit tissue back together. Bone and cartilage heal the slowest, although in another day or so, she’ll be mobile. She thanks Cross and offers to pay her. Cross refuses. “I have seen much bravery in my years in the Brotherhood. You are truly deserving of your place in Lyon’s Pride.” She puffs out her chest. “I am honored to have fought with you, Olivia.”

Liv smiles, and shakes her head. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Cross nods. “Regardless, I will inform the Scribes. Your bravery must be recorded for future generations.” She pauses, and then smiles. “Your father would be proud of you.” The tough older woman offers Charon a hand, which he grasps hesitantly, pumping twice. “A shame I couldn’t have met you in better circumstances.” Charon grunts his assent – he begrudgingly admits to himself that he likes the woman, and offers her the respect that one skilled soldier gives another.

He closes and locks the door behind her. “Sorry you’ll have to play nurse for a day or two.” Olivia smiles wanly.

He does not mind. He does not mind at all.

 _They are together_. That is all that matters.


	22. The Road Less Traveled

Her warmth mesmerizes him, attracts him; a moth to a flame. He’s curled up next to her, drawing her to him, their naked bodies pressed tightly together. He can feel her begin to stir. “Whoa – is that a gun in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” she jokes, squirming against him. He can see the weak light of the morning sun struggling in from between the ill-fitting metal wall panels.

“Whoops, heh. Sorry about that.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“Oh, no need to be sorry at all.” She turns to face him, eases him flat on his back, and before he can say a word, she’s straddled him.  He can feel her moist center just inches away, and he can barely keep himself from pushing her back, pressing himself into her. If it’s one thing that Jericho had gotten right, it’s that _this_ is his favorite. Just the thought of her soft naked body writhing above his, an unobstructed view of her taut stomach, her ample breasts and hard pink nipples, her dark golden hair cascading over her graceful shoulders, her muscular legs squeezing him tightly…it made him harder just thinking about it.

She slides backward and guides his stiff length into her with a practiced hand. “Oh, yes,” he gasps. A long, low moan arises from deep within her as she grinds against him. He gazes up at her, basks in her beauty. _She wants me_. He raises his hand and cups her cheek, as the other guides her hips forward and back. _She is mine. My woman._ She kisses his palm, and gently pushes his hand down between her legs. He rubs her swollen clit with his thumb and she pants, squirming on top of him. Her orgasm is mild, sweet – with effort he holds himself back as he watches her face, lips parted in a gentle ‘O,’ her flushed cheeks, her eyelids closing as she moans softly.

“Mmm…” She hums contentedly. She smiles down at him. “I didn’t hear you come,” she says. He usually follows shortly after, succumbing to the rhythmic contractions inside of her.

“I wanted to watch you.”

She squeezes him deliciously as she laughs. “I didn’t know I was performing for an audience.” His hands roam over her body, and she begins to rock her hips back and forth again. He thrusts up into her, his hands pushing her down onto him, forcing him deeper into her. She leans forward, caressing his cheek with one smooth hand, smiling as his fingers dig into her hips painfully. She moans with pleasure, savoring the sensation of him inside of her. “Come for me, baby,” she whispers softly. Abruptly he stiffens, shouts, eyelids fluttering as he finds his own release.

She kisses him chastely, her lips soft and warm.

His angel.

* * *

"Any nightmares tonight?" she asks, tugging on her trousers. After they returned from Evergreen Mills, he'd been plagued by them - waking up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, her tortured screams still ringing in his ears. Desperate and refusing to see him suffer any longer, she'd insisted that they return to Underworld. Barrows gave her a recipe for a drug cocktail that he thought would be helpful, and told them to return periodically for checkups to monitor the effects and tweak the dosage if needed. 

"No." He takes his medication in the evenings without protest. It makes her feel better - and when he takes it, he isn't tortured by these dreams, these ghosts of memories. He's ashamed of the compulsion to stand still, to watch her being beaten mercilessly; he did nothing as the most precious thing in the world to him rolled in the dust screaming in agony. Memories of her dirt-smudged pale face and her battered legs would haunt him long after he woke. Even worse was when his unconscious mind would entertain the possibility of the opposite outcome, and create terrifying hellscapes where none before existed.  _It's okay now. Don't think about that._

"Good!" She smiles and saunters through the doorway, greeting Wadsworth as she pads down the stairs. After he dresses, he follows.

He lounges on the couch and watches as she cooks them breakfast while singing joyfully along with her Pip-Boy radio.

_It is worth it_ , he thinks. _Whatever the price I have to pay, it is worth it. For her_.

He remembers the poem she read to him that night at Tenpenny. ‘The Road not Taken.’ Like the overgrown path described in the poem, the road they have chosen is not often traveled. It is scary and exhilarating – and potentially dangerous. Long or short, she will likely be the one to leave him to continue on alone. _Still, it is worth it_. She looks over her shoulder at him, winks, and shakes her hips suggestively.

“A cap for your thoughts?” she asks, smiling cheerily as she places a plate of food in front of him.

He laughs. “That’d be highway robbery.”

* * *

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

                                               ~ Robert Frost _; The Road Not Taken_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, this is the end of our journey. A much lighter, happier ending than Dark Hearts - just what Olivia and Charon deserve. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. ~AMG


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